There Are Things I Only Find At Your House

There are things I only find at your house

starting with that feeling of calm, like a pair of slippers by the 

door, shuffling down the hall to you with a swish-swish-swish,

the fresh courage I sip from the glass of water on the end table,

always filled, always smaller than yours so I know which is which,

the reassuring weight of your body draped over mine like a blanket,

one long leg still visible under the fold of my arm, your hand on my hip,

the warm sanctuary of bone on bone releasing a velvet frequency in

my ears that subdues the roar of everything that came before and

even everything after, the perfection of repose, finally, a lacuna

that spreads open my ribs to make more room for this heart,

to make more room for these poems to flood into.