Across an old oak table,
over coffee and cakes
with legs crossed and eyes throwing back laughter like old friends,
I know I have come to his home at last and at least, alive.
as I gaze around the room I see,
upon walls firmly fastened
and along wood floors steadily running that,
to my horror,
it is not safety,
nor comfort that lay over me.
No, not at all.
And I am
Thoughts are flash-flooding my mind
and I begin to panic,
blood-pumping to hide
and to quickly cover from the calamity.
Pressing back against the wall,
armpits spilling with sweat like summer,
the room darkening,
perception shriveling like a plum mercilessly subjected to the burning sun,
I realize in the wake of such fateful moments, now,
that simply arriving guarantees me nothing, and,
that calling his mine showed more about me than it did about him.
From across the table I found the train of his sight once more.
His old, familiar eyes watching mine,
And I am not sure why, or how, but
they felt like home.
Stop, he quietly said.
And I did.
Be, and rest.
Sitting up straight again in my chair and knowing I could trust him,
Time seemed to take me by the hand as a sweet companion and I realized, eventually,
that I knew.
I knew that I had come to be differenced,
to be split wide like wood by the swinging force of an axe upon my inhibitions.
And I knew that it had happened.
my splintered cavities felt filled by something good,
and it seemed to pool up around me everywhere.
And something beautiful,
like love convinced by grace,
came over me too with beckoning allure.
And with time came truth, like rich vines,
patiently wrapping me together again, snug,
and outside me suffocating old veneers.
It is you, he said. Just you that I want.
I was quiet.
And while you spilled your guts for your entire life to find something that would just last–
something that would not disintegrate,
nor dash to change its mind,
nor stab you in the chest repeatedly when it gathered the knife in its upper hand,
yearning for you to loosen your grip, and
to reach out and take mine.