The Bedroom (Dreamhouse)

I am the place where you are held,
temple of the tactile
and of touching.
At my heart, you are cupped
in a kernel of breath, breathing
the sweet scent of comfort,
of trust, of rest.
In later years, my walls
thin like skin, that cup of comfort
is mimicked with pillows
and the circle
of yourself, your own breath.
For now, the texture of language
dissolves into a lace
of images
and silent sensation,
a living lace picking apart
old memories like threads,
then reworks them —
tally, turn, twist, and link —
frugally, fondly, forever.


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