Quietly, quietly, it’s calling you,

your soul throbs in spite of itself.

You’ve closed your ears to the sound but

the vibrations shake your core.

You find yourself looking for it even

though you swore you wouldn’t. It’s

the place you can almost see when you

stumble home drunk in the

middle of the night. It’s the pool of

light made by a lonely streetlight. It’s the

bar on the corner where people look hard and

unforgiving. It’s the safe little house full of

family that you pass on your way,

peeking in at the one window left ajar. The

window is letting the calm and peace inside

escape, you watch it dissipate into the

night air. You hold on to your aching

heart, suddenly grown too large to handle.

It’s the sound of your footsteps on the

sidewalk, breaking the oily silence. It’s the

memory of his skin pressed against yours,

long lazy mornings when all is put aside. It’s

the shadow of a streetdog shirking

in dark corners, watching warily as you

pass, wondering why you’re there,

why you’re disturbing its world,

why you’re passing through its space.

by Cher Bibler