Sheets

She looked like silence in its honesty, with a hair that smelled like time, a time as infinite as a hint of purple bloating in blue. He looked like presence in its deception, with a hair that smelled like home, a home too far yet present with nothing to refute or prove its existence.

He was lying next to her watching every breath, counting her in songs. He never acknowledged time units for they can’t be held, felt or smelled but songs are different, songs are real, songs are evil sometimes.

She gave him her back pretending to be asleep while pondering on what had just happened and if she would find the time to change the bed sheets before going to work.

One song, two songs, three songs for him to realize that the pillows are three not one, that they too are not fun. He gently swept to the further side, walked slowly so as not to make a sound and went through the door. She waited for him to close her eyes, to shut her breath, to count the minutes until changing the sheets.

In the morning, there was no trace of him, she hurriedly opened the shelves but there were no sheets either.

She; dark brown hair and a skin full of freckles, looking the mirror she decided what a dream it was, finding nothing within to prove it.

She put on her clothes and as she was leaving, a lighter was on the floor, a lighter that has to be overlooked or else she would have to buy new bed sheets.