These sheets on my bed know memories

more detailed than my own,

more forgiving than my nature.

The dirt stains know no history

other than the remnants

of grass and sweat, tears

from undelivered goals and pent up frustration.

Blood laced with alcohol

after falling up stairs

or unattended wounds that went unnoticed.

The folds from tossing and turning,

fabric flung away from heat and relentless

exhaustion at not falling asleep.

Arms that soothe and hold

when in sickness or ill moods,

kissing away black eyes

and keeping the dawn at bay

against the persevering neighboring shades.

The grey has felt lovers,

remembering those I chose to forget.

Memories lie between these sheets,

without hatred, regret, or judgment,

still giving comfort all the days

and nights I rested within.