Her Last Chair

A breathing weight pushes flesh into fabric and wood. A cellular heat melds, sinks inward. Fibrous miasmas knit cloth and foam to a ligamentous persona. Nightly, less of her is peeled away to be packed between sheets. Her last chair takes upon it a deeper imprint then her body alone. It has folded her inward into hollows, each one a pool of bodily memories. This evening the chair has the shape of a lover He has two more legs, but his arms still thrill in a comforting way. Together they are both tucked into one more upholstered dream.