Baby Breaks Through

Soft, warm pillows surround me, keeping me safe from something I can’t see. My days have no hours, no mornings, no nights, just comfort and occasional consciousness, dim and dark; so little light.

Suddenly, my safety shatters, the silence sacrificed to sound, the warmth falling off me in sheets as my host objects to this new trip toward another eternity. If I could talk, I’d complain; hell, I will anyway.

These first few days are new, the sounds so much closer, yet the comforting beat of her heart so much farther away. Solace in the form of strokes and kisses dim the sense of loss of the pillows and the timelessness of that cozy safe-house. No longer am I fed fully and without fuss. Now, I have to insist on being noticed. Before, noises startled me; now, I make the noises and startle them.

Is she the one who kept me warm and safe? She feels different, but I know her skin and recognize her taste. Comfort takes on a new skin, another dimension as she takes me in her arms and feeds me familiarity.

 

[I didn’t realize I’d posted this before, under a different title, until a sharp-eyed friend said it looked familar. I had, indeed. I had called it “Familiarity” before. I thought I was posting a long-neglected poem but, no, I was plagiarizing myself.]

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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