The Book of Weston

Sometimes I forget.

I try to pretend that I want

the cold noisy outside world.

I try to conform to its contours,

warp with the others, stretch

myself across schedules, contort

myself to fit goals, body be damned.

Obligations, acquaintances abound.

For my health, for my future,

to be painfully functional.

But faces become hollow, voices drone,

and I glimpse the sparkle of you

in a book, in a breeze, in a silence.

I submerge and you pull me down

into the warmth and I want you,

peace beneath the face of things.

I crave the weight of you pressing soft

like the breast of a mother, feeding

whispering, opening a home

away from the sandpaper people.

Stay with me, please.

Don't spit me out.

Don't abandon me here

with them.