I shrink myself down

and crawl inside her pocket.

She doesn’t feel me there,

carried through her day.

It’s comforting,

the closeness of the fabric

and the presence of her skin,

so close to mine and warm,

it pacifies me.

I wake up in the palm of her hand

as her eyes slide over me

like the inquisitive fingers of a blind man.

I am an artifact, a pocket relic.

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