Disposable Warmth by Lauren Poplock

Somewhere over the Pacific, wrapped in one of those thin airline blankets that never quite cover your whole body, I realized I was falling for you in that dim, drifting blue of half-sleep. It was only a week— a soft, sun-soaked stretch of days with a near-stranger who somehow slipped into my life as easily as the warm sand between my toes.

When I landed, the morning light felt too sharp, and I folded the blanket neatly on my lap as if that could keep you from slipping away.

That night, I kept waking in the dark, reaching for that same thin softness, certain I could still feel the ghost of your arm brushing mine. I told myself it was just exhaustion, the kind that turns strangers into memories you carry like fabric worn thin from too much holding.

But some loves are like those airline blankets—meant only for the hours in the air, warm for a moment, and gone the second your feet touch the ground.

Lauren Poplock is a writer based in Los Angeles. Her work has been recognized by Hollins University, The Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, and The Live Poet’s Society of New Jersey. She is published or forthcoming in The Eunoia Review, Neologism Poetry Journal, Gargoyle Magazine, and more