I have found that familiar place next to you again
where the warmth of your body envelops me beneath sheets
and the sound of your breathing sings me to sleep.

Isn’t it strange how we run to those things familiar
wear old shoes
shirts worn to bear thread
locked in the closets of our rooms painting memory
chipping at clay in the solace of our cellars.

I’m up again smoking,
writing down my past,
hiding from what lurks in shadows,
attempting not to sleep
and rather live each moment given
instead of dreaming –
because it’s patient.
It’s no junkie on some midnight scrambling for lost change for the fix,
it’s no love on the long drives to nowhere looking for the answer.
It knows where to find me
at any time
and I’ve got to outrun it.
Have to chip at clay and create my own tombstone,
have to leave blurred ink in the bottom of the dresser drawer,
beneath the bed mattress where someday I’m sure it’ll find me
finally praying the rosary