I lie on the couch,

stomach pressed

into the cushions

arms folded under me

hiding from the cold,

the lonely solitude –

the scratch of the fabric

bites my cheek,

the television laughs

derisively at the isolation

of my adult world.

 

I lie on the couch

back flat – knees bent

pondering my interior world,

hands cushion my head –

the stereo whispers

telling me secrets

I should have known

as the sleeping breath

of my sweet child keeps time.

 

I lie on the couch

curled on my side

around the knowing

of what belongs to me

yet dances out of my reach,

games that I watch

but cannot join –

they are not real

and I belong to a world

that is real if nothing else.

 

I lie on the couch,

stomach pressed

into the cushions,

head softly lying

on your lap –

your hand rests

in the small of my back

while together we

contemplate the sacred

and I know that this

is the reality I have

hoped for all along.