his place
my refuge
no words
nor
explanation
necessary
just a knock
on the door
at any hour
and i was in
my bloodstained shirts
handwashed and dried
before my waking
rolling over in flannel
to the smells of a good
ol' southern boy breakfast
eggs
and
bacon
and
sausage
and
biscuits
and
gravy
he'd fix all this
and wait for me
to come stumblin'
out of the bedroom
hand me some coffee
and a plate
and let me decide
the course of the
day
he was always
up for anything
from dirtbikes
to museums
to skinnydipping
in the neighbor's
pond
nothing i ever asked
was something that
couldn't be done
and it would go on like this
for as long as it took
for me to get over
what had brought me
there in the first place
sometimes 1 day
most the time 2 or 3
and once i stayed there
three weeks
him gently bringing
me back to normal
asking for little
in return but that
i spare him the
details that would
surely destroy the
image of me in his
mind, distorted as
it might have been
it is this
refuge
there on
the hill
at the end
of a little
dirt road
still standing
all four bedrooms
and wrap around
porch
christmas lights
twinkling
despite it
being early
june
i am certain of that
writing this through
blurry hazed eyes
so i do not forget
come morning
it is definite
it is there
it is just that
strangers opened the door
when i knocked
seemingly disturbed by
my knocking at this hour
not knowing his name
when i asked for him
unknowingly
stripping away
the only peace
i've ever known
Birth sign: Libra
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