The Place Your Heart Feeds

I think, sometimes, it is good to have furniture
a size too small. Where touch is inevitable,
and two people have no choice to but to be
close. A brief momentary reminder
that we are more than business partners
in this life we live.

It has been a long week. A long few
if I am honest, and my natural reserve,
so well beat into me as a child, wears thin
and I am living a little too close to the surface.
Not a bad thing, but tender. Vulnerable,
in need of the love languages I speak and understand,
where a small sofa in the corner becomes
the place your heart feeds.

About this poem.

It has been a long few weeks. Too many funerals. Too many hours. Too much work. Not enough time to simply process it all. It’s not a bad thing, it’s just a thing.

One of my two love languages is touch. I am fortunate that the woman I love speaks the same language.

From those two things, this poem.

The picture was taken at The Mount, Edith Wharton’s home down near Pittsfield, Mass.

Tom