As the noise of the
room grows, and everything
begins to feel ***** and
hot, there you are,
a porcelain, plastic
paradise, waiting patiently
for my swift exit to
conclude within your liminal embrace.
When you’re in public, I
pray you hold no occupants
or invite no others in to
use you for less holy purposes.
Gross. At home, you
remain untouched and pure
as my ultimate space of comfort;
a dark, cool, quiet, temple
of toilet paper, towels, tile, and taps.
Hopefully, your walls bestow upon
my lungs and mind, desperate
for fresh, clean indoor air,
a window, or at the very least
proper ventilation.
Breathe with me.
You are both an ultimate
form of sensory deprivation and
proper stimulation simultaneously;
when each desired, you provide accordingly.
You’re the one place noises cannot penetrate,
nor music I need not to stimulate,
though you play it oft’ in public for the masses.
Your aura generated sublime,
unbound by rules or by time;
how grateful I am to be able to be
able to so easily connect with the
Divine.