Blanket

Do I still want this,

or are you just a habit?

I’ve grown so accustomed

to every sound your soul makes.

I know nothing other

than the form of your shape.

You are my safety;

my blanket, my unending warmth.

Though, the days seem

to have grown hot.

The woolen lay upon me

is further needed not.

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6 thoughts on “Blanket

  1. Pingback: Curated Poetry: Ward Clever Returns The Favor – Ward Clever

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