Fifteen.

I’ve had this blanket

For fifteen years now.

you can hardly call it one;

Strands and torn remains of

Something so soft, 

Something that used to be clean

Something that used to be cotton white

But now it is not.

I cling to this blanket like Narcissus 

clung to his face, but it has changed.

At night I curl it round my hands

Nuzzle it against my cheek

Humming as its rough threads 

scrape my skin gently.

I’ve had this blanket for fifteen years now

And I don’t want to ever let go.