I love getting lost in the sounds of overwhelming amounts of
conversational noise.

Picking up small pieces of endlessly
formed sentences.
Being found in the lost patterns of
blurred translations

I think of when I was younger.

When I would fall asleep
in large rooms filled with unnamed faces, with memories
blank in remembrance
but full in substance.  

Eyelids weighed down
with the light blanket
of implications,
rather than the heavy coat
of understanding.

Soft whispers filled ears.
Confided arms lifted the weightlessness of youth,
carrying half opened eyes of
trusted transitions.

Between forearms and pillows;
hospital beds and graves.