Warm Blanket

I woke, stiff, on the couch again.

The TV screen, a blue, dead glow.

And then I felt it, cutting through the pain:

a blanket, folded, soft and low.

A mug beside me, steam still curled,

from tea, kept warm. A quiet grace.

Someone had moved, in this harsh world,

to leave this comfort, in my space.

Not asked for, not expected, just

a gentle knowing, a hand laid.

And in that small, unexpected trust,

the lonely, rigid edges frayed.

A warmth that wasn't just the cloth.

But something softer, deeper, true.

A quiet, undeserved troth.

Something good, that saw me through.