I haven’t been held tightly in many snappy Februaries. All my suitors are worried that if I relax my beating body into them we will get too comfortable and fall into a delicious and greedy sleep. A forever day of playing teenage hooky. And they are correct in a way. I have been told many times before that the way I curve is warm and safe, that when I release my muscles I can provide such distinct comfort with my full weight. But no one will give in. I think all the wide eyes I reveal myself to are certain that they are the last ones who will see me. Everyone worries they will be the last person I love before I kill myself. Everyone plays hot potato with me and my moist lips and my open chest. They fling me often enough I cannot make a home or catch a drink of soda pop. I imagine they believe that if I fall asleep in their arms I will never be awoken. Then they will have to pay rent per square inch of my lifeless body. All my shedding hairs and growing toenails. That then, no new loves will go near their crotch due to my slumber corpse draping their lap. This is the very image circling my lover’s head the first time they shake me awake among flannel sheets with minutes to go on the alarm. They have been spooked by their own investment in the fantasy; me curled on their thighs with us both merrily dozing. We have no intention of moving. There are multiple pillows of different levels of support. We are equally happy here. But they are scared of this heaven. That they won’t like the thread count. They worry without suffering there is no joy. I’m not saying that sharing covers and the smell of me soft and fresh from a shower is going to abolish suffering- but, we will try to minimize it.