Doona
My doona—curled up, and twisted from last night's dreamless sleep—made your perfect form. When I came back into the bedroom, it was night, and I could half-close my eyes and see you lying there. You were an unexpected but very much anticipated visitor. For a moment—just a moment, mind—I could imagine that you had lay there all night, impatiently waiting for me to come home. You had fallen asleep where you waited. You had no energy even to take off your glasses. They were skewed by the soft force of the pillow. You realised that I was home—you must have heard me watching—and rolled over to kiss me good night. I imagined you snuggling into my back as I crawled into bed. It was at the point I realised it was all a trick of the light, of the dream, and of the night—at the point I realised that you hadn't waited in years—that I decided to sleep in the other room. I didn’t want to disturb the picture. I know you are gone—I know I can’t have you back—but illusions are all I have left.