A poem I wrote...

She was a soft, warm blanket
Wrapped comfortingly around him every night.
But as he snuggled into her, he dreamed of
Egyptian cotton sheets; try as he might,
His treacherous memory drew pictures in the air
Which did not match the woman lying there.
He tried ignoring them; it felt so wrong...
But the lure of smooth, cool fabric was too strong.
He took the blanket, flung it through the door,
And cloaked in memories, slept alone once more.