There are places,
small niches and nooks in time,
where we retire to,
where we run away from,
and find ourselves in,
when we are lost.

You my love,
are my place.
My fuzzy dreamed melody,
and my home with out a name.

The air is warm in you,
and around you.
I fall into it with open arms,
and every time,
it catches me.

Sometimes,
which is to say,
most times.
I find myself in a heavy,
thick,
merciless fog.
I feel around blindly for my exit,
for my sweet escape.
I am lost,
and I have given up.

Hopelessness becomes me,
it consumes my soul,
for dinner,
and fills its belly on my failures.
Just before it is all over,
before I become black,
there is your hand.
Your quiet,
all-knowing offering,
to guide me back to the light,
and I am saved.