Lips soft.
Hands rough.

We made a teddy bear together for our six month anniversary. I found the bear with the softest fur and had her filled just so. I could hold and be held.

The product of our imagination, closest thing we’ll ever get to a mixing of our spirits, closest thing to a remanifestation of our flesh,

Our child.

She served as a pillow while I waited for you to die, my sister cried while holding the bear, tears staining the perfect pink dress.

Our child, a gift from you to me, something you had me make for us.

She’s far too soft, like me, a gentle push and she collapses from my touch.
Our child, not flesh

Just fur
And too soft

I went back with some friends, right after I cried myself awake; I wanted our child to be you, rough to the touch. I found the harshest fur, filled it with pure, stuffed love.

Told the woman who helped us it was a gift for my boyfriend. She said she hoped it would make us smile together, I didn’t tell her your smile died.

I made a new child, alone without you.

He’s rough to the touch, but soft on the inside,
I give him a hug and he seems hold me back.

This is our bear,
I made him for us.

The closest thing I’ll ever get
To a mini-version of us.