I Am Her Cushion

Every night she comes to me,

hugs me and sleeps.

I am her cushion.

It isn't monotonous though.

For the way she holds me is different,

Her arms feel different.

On some days, she clinches them around me tightly.

As if I am her solace, her only companion.

It feels good to be hugged like that.

But I can't look at her on these days,

For she is too lonely, too vulnerable.

I feel helpless when it becomes difficult to comfort her.

For that's my only job.

I don't like the nights when I have to absorb her tears.

On such nights I wish, I could cry too.

She won't understand, but it's difficult when all of it builds up inside you.

Or maybe she will, for she often can't vent it out too.

But she has me.

I am her cushion.

There are days when she doesn't need me.

I am thrown on one corner of the bed.

And she sleeps with her phone.

I see her smiling. She doesn't need me to comfort her.

On such days, I miss her.

I miss her arms, her smell, her breath.

But I am not supposed to feel all these things.

I can't be vulnerable and lonely.

For I am her cushion.