You are made from something familiar. I want to sit down in you, spend some time there. When I move, you make this little grinding noise and I cannot make out whether it’s a sound of pleasure or pain. When your skin touches mine, I’m not sure if it’s your heat I feel or if it’s my own, regenerated through the softness that is your stuffing.
Do you even breathe? Do you rely on my weight for your own existence? It’s clear that you do. I wonder how many bodies you have held in your lifetime. Still, I don’t really care about you, about if anyone will ever hold you in return. I hope that this doesn’t make me a bad person. After all, I am relying on you to keep me from falling to the ground. So…thank you for that