Comfy Couch

On a comfy couch in the corner seat, you snuggle with the world. Whatever else: the wars, the debt, climate change, you wrap your arms around it and feel the pain and stress and paranoia and squeeze tight so it can’t breathe. A movie, or two. Popcorn on the table, in and out of sleep, the occasional cigarette, a text message. Barefoot between carpet and tile, reaching into the freezer for Ben and Jerry’s, back on the couch eating straight from the carton.

You’re protected by cushions. You can fall asleep for the night and wake up in the morning and make breakfast and it won’t matter. Another text message, mindless chatter, the only kind you could stand at this hour on a small electronic gadget, if you must. Face to face we could go deeper, if we wanted, but most likely I’d be in the other corner, curled up in a ball, and we’d just laugh because we could do anything but all we’d want is the couch and the tv and snacks anyway.

But you’re there and I’m here and we each need to get through the days, separately, working our jobs and doing chores and telling our families we love them and once in a while meeting friends for drinks or dinner or both. You clean the house and wait for the moment when the long day yields, you’re on the couch again, knowing I’m out there on a couch somewhere too, the great world spinning as we grip our pillows and rest.