by Emily Reader

He was a dent in a bed,
Its impression like handprints in kneaded dough,
Still warm where life seeped into it,
He was nibbled butter, softened by stolen sunlight,
He was drowsily half-closed eyes,
And light that spills from windows like warm honey,
He was an engine,
Wheezing to life on a frosty day,
He was a tumbleweed of hair,
Sighing as it glides,
He was an extra cushion,
A sagging sofa,
A prince.