Pillow Book

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(Sam got back from the library one morning to find his clean laundry (minus a pair of socks) folded on his bed. This was scribbled on a piece of cardboard torn from an empty box of detergent, and tucked in with a shirt that was missing a few buttons.)



Jeans. Freakishly long. Yours.
Stained brown with mud and dirt.
Digging in the graveyard.

Olive button-down. Mine.
Stained: maybe barbecue.
Tasted fucking good, though.

Socks. Matching, no holes. Yours.
Steal them or mix them up?
Decisions, decisions.

More jeans. Normal length. Mine.
New hole ripped in one knee
When we were sparring. Bitch.

Blue t-shirt with dog. Yours.
So very yours, you freak.
Remind me to shrink it.

Sock. Singular. Yeah, mine.
You cut off the other
To patch up my ankle.

Shorts. Black, blue, more black. Yours.
Remember the itching
Powder? Fucking priceless.

Pair of overalls. Ours.
Both sweat-stained from running
When they figured us out.

Long-sleeved shirt. Dark grey. Yours.
Bar-smoke clinging. You glared
At chicks smiling at me.

Shirt. Stain - demon gore? Mine.
Thinking holy water
Not softener, in that one.

Shirt. Missing buttons. Yours.
Ripped them off trying to
Rip it off you. Hell yeah.

Shorts. Interesting stain. Yours.
Made you come in your pants.
Oh, wait. Never mind. Mine.

Red t-shirt. Mine. Used to
Be white. Beyond saving?
No, you said. And hold on.

Grey hoodie. Was once yours
Till you shrank it. Mine now.
Both like me wearing it.

Don't know why you prefer
Library to laundry.
It's scenes from our life, Sam.


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