And Everywhere A Haze

My bedspread is scattered
with the
paper remains
of too many responsibilities
to count.

Unlike my floor
whose peaceful emptiness
guides my soles to
safety.

Soon I'll climb
beneath the covers.
Maybe even all of the way.
Then I'll see
nothing but polka dots
and filtered light.

Because at least then I'll know
the light is there
to be my friend
and my guide.

Even thought it isn't
there with me.

I've wanted you more
than I've wanted
light. And more
than I've wanted polka dots.

And I don't
even know how much
I want them.

Your voice is warm
and light.
And dotted with the
the honesty you
refuse to part
with.

If I could have you
speak into my comforter,
if I could have you
scatter your remnants
even if only above and about
my blankets,
then I could know.

You are so much
more than an accumulation
of papers and ink.

But you weigh
down on me like beachwood.
Stripped.
Dried.
Abused.
And so beautiful.

And thus I lay a hand
on my own hand.
Smudged with ink spots.

And I am safe.