Let’s be honest here,
It’s more like crawling back into a warm blanket,
Than anything else.
It’s not so much that it’s easy,
You’re a complicated sort of thing, you are,
You’ve got constellations for finger-tips, the breadth of you is vast,
You contain multitudes, as conflicted Whitman put it.
It’s not so much that it’s comfortable,
You’ve got heavy grinding grit for edges,
And a tendency to catch alight at any provocation.
But rather, I’ve been here,
I wasn’t ready to leave,
And I jumped back in the second a chance arose.
More than that, though,
Now it’s all awkward knees ‘n elbows ‘n stretches ‘n shuffles,
As I try to get back to those warm spots I made for myself.
