Under My Sofa

Somewhere only we know

My heaven is the arc of skin between my thumb and finger.
It's the warm press of shoulders as two people linger.
It's the rough strands of hair pulled from among the fine,
The lump in my nose disrupting a straight line.

It's the scratchy space under the soft sofa seat,
The timid insecurity when two strangers meet.
The sound of gurgling water swirling down the sink,
The moment of soothing darkness that accompanies each blink.

It's the black ink that writes constellations on my tongue,
While the page remains blank with my mind fully wrung.
It's the end of a story making no sort of sense,
'Cause then it feels real like justice is dispensed.

It's the moments of peace when my mind just can't think,
And the moments of comprehension when I write pain into ink.
It's the furious rain that somehow evokes feeling,
The wild dance in a storm that leaves a mind reeling.

It's the ache in a brain as an answer eludes,
The satisfaction inherent when the problem concludes.
It's the elegance of emotion simply spun,
And the knowledge that a poem is never just "done".

It's the thought that every person has their heaven too,
And the fact that these fragments are what define "me" and "you".

***

This doesn't cover the multitude of things that build me up, but I feel it covers a few of the more important and more concise snippets that make me who I am.

Everything in there is something the soothes me, or hurts in a way that makes me better.

If you have any of these sorts of fragments specific to you that you feel aren't too personal to share, I'd love to hear them.

Alex xxx