Coming Home

We talk and it's like
Coming home
To a meal on the table
And a roaring fire in the hearth,
A picture-postcard,
Like we have never been apart
And we've always known
Each other since forever,
Even though it's been
Just a year, a eye-blink in my lifetime,
It scrabbled by so fast,
As I desperately clawed at it,
Trying to get a firm grip
On time itself to slow
It's achingly fast hands from
Snatching you away again.
I know we had
Hours of lying together,
Walking, laughing, drinking
In our own universe,
You, me, us at the centre,
But it seems like a blurred
Montage of hopes and dreams,
Fulfilled in a flitting moment.
I've forgotten life before you,
That empty, vast nothingness,
A vacuum where my heart
Couldn't beat, exist.
You were always here,
In my heart, sleeping,
Waiting for enough warmth
To become real, alive,
A dream given life;
Substance, in the shape of
A imperfect-perfect man,
You're an imprint of what
I could become, only clearer,
More defined, with raised edges,
And angled lines;
And I love you, despite all
The sharp pains between each
Slow and uncomfortable
Intake of breath,
Despite the wounds and scars,
The numbness in my limbs,
I love you still because you
Are the softness that blunts
The edges on this razor-sharp world,
And you hold a soft-white towel
Against the cuts and grazes
It's given me over the years;
An anaesthetic for my fractured soul.
I love you still because
With you it's always like
Coming home.