In the confines of my room,
There are many things.
A bookshelf, a wardrobe, a bed,
And upon that bed,
There is a pillow with a pillowcase.
It comes in an assortment of designs,
It changes colour almost weekly.
But that doesn’t matter,
As long it remains a trustworthy companion.
You must’ve written in your diaries,
But I have Mr. Pillowcase.
They roll from the corner of my eyes,
Slide down, full of bitterness,
Onto its forehead.
The soft fabric consoles,
While soaking all those memories.
It amazes me how well it listens,
Without judgement of any sort.
After that, it sings me,
A sweet lullaby,
Telling me to hope,
Hope for a better tomorrow.
And oh… the blissful sleep,
I’m in its cottony embrace.
Dear Mr. Pillowcase,
I have never thanked you, have I?
You let me pour my heart and soul,
Into your coloured fabrics,
You are aware of what I feel,
Yet, you forget when I put you in the wash.
I am eternally very grateful, Mr. Pillowcase,
And I hope you’d open up to me,
And feel the same way.