The Healing

“…say farewell to the dark of night, I see the coming of the sun…I feel like a little child whose life has just begun…You came and breathed new life into this lonely heart of mine…You threw out the lifeline just in the nick of time…One, you’re like a dream come true – Two, just wanna be with you – Three, girl, it’s plain to see, that you’re the only one for me – And four, repeat steps one through three – Five, make you fall in love with me – If ever I believe my work is done…Then I’ll start back at one…”

SOFT

And here I am…soft.

I have my soft back like I used to be.

I have my soft.

Thought my softness died in me.

But look at me now.

I am sweet smiling joy,

and so soft.

All over, inside and out,

gentle and tender.

Like water rushing over a hard stone

for a thousand years to finally make it smooth

Him finding me took a thousand tears

but when he did he finally proved

that the soft part of me was still alive.

Just dehydrated.

Thirsting for proper care.

Didn’t know how much I’d missed my softness

until he rediscovered and kissed my softness

and made the waters return,

bringing life back

to the most womanly part of my essence.

The part that is soft,

especially in his presence.

And here I am…soft.

Poured him onto my skin

and it made me soft.

Let him just soak right in.

And now I feel so supple and moisturized.

So silky and revitalized.

He is a spa treatment for my wounded self

and my tired spirit.

So real to me.

So healed with he.

Now I bathe in the reflection of the beauty

he reminded me that I possessed.

Now I am soft,

from the curve of my breast

to the smoothness of my back

to the fullness of my thighs.

My lips and my eyes.

All soft.

Still soft, to my joy and amazement.

Because I wasn’t sure my soft would survive

this life of hardness.

When I threw that shell over it

for its own protection

I worried that my soft might suffocate.

And I had to leave it covered for so long

I thought it might be too late.

That no one would be able to resuscitate

the soft in me.

But he knew what was living

beneath the surface,

strangling and gasping for air,

but still managing to stay alive.

So he took a deep breath, held it,

dove deep, long and probing,

and recovered my treasure.

Rejuvenated my pleasure.

And when he came up for air

he had in his possession my soft.

And he still does ‘til this day.

Because with him is the safest place

for the softness in me to be.

He cares for all of it

like he cares for all of me.

Me who is again finally…

soft.

“…Through the night, I feel your voice…and with nothing but you in my mind, as you quench me of all my desires…and I’m filled with ecstasy…I can’t believe its real, I can’t believe its true, I can’t believe that you chose me when I was choosing you. And I can’t believe that you are here with me, and I am here with you…softly kissing you…forever kissing you…gently kissing you…”

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“The Inn Of The Small Comforts” – a new poem

I am “The Inn Of The Small Comforts”.

No one comes to me to stay.

They linger for a tiny spell,

and I send them on their way.

They continue on their journey.

They come to me only to rest.

To quench their dry and thirsty mouths

with milk pouring from my breast.

They lay their burdens on my shoulders.

Their worries, cares, and fears.

Releasing their most tightly held emotions

with loud screaming, and with tears.

They lay their heads down in my softness,

and take shelter from the storm.

They regain their strength within my caring

‘til they’re no  longer weak and worn.

I am “The Inn Of The Small Comforts”.

My tables overflow with food

that is fresh and well prepared

and nourishing and good.

My bath is a luxurious scented dream

of soapy, watery, bubbly bliss.

I massage their heads and backs and feet.

I send them to sleep with a soft kiss.

But I always remind them,

“This place with me is not your home.”

Yes I will let you rest awhile,

but then you must go on. Alone.”

I am “The Inn Of The Small Comforts”.

But all comfort does pass with time.

And then I remind them that it’s time to leave.

Staying too long is a crime.

“You cannot stay here with me” I say.

“This is not your domain.

This place will never be your own;

must never bear your name.”

“You cannot stay too long within my walls.

You are too weak to keep them strong.

So leave when it is time to go.

This is not where you belong.”

Once a wounded, wandering soul

thought he should not leave.

“I could stay here the rest of my days.

The air is so sweet and here I can breathe.”

He admired how well I ran my inn.

I do it with what seems to be ease and grace.

With pleasure dripping from my curves,

and a smile upon my face.

But it took me years to learn to run my inn

and while I don’t ask others to assist,

this man said he wanted to help me.

He asks and then insists.

He chops wood, gets water from the well.

He fishes and hunts and brings me game.

I serve him juicy fruits fresh out my garden,

and his words are always the same.

“I want to be in this place with you

and I want to earn my keep.

I want you to take a break sometimes.

To relax and get some sleep.”

But there are more chores than he imagined,

and I bear many heavy loads.

He had no idea this was the life

behind the gates of this abode.

Now he resents the work he asked to do,

but now I’m used to his helping hand.

He wasn’t strong enough yet to work so hard,

and yes, I guess I understand

that his wounds were still fresh, though healing.

And now he’s angry at me too.

For I just let him stay there knowing

there was too much he could not do.

I am “The Inn Of The Small Comforts”.

Or I was, but not anymore.

Too much damage done to my sanctuary,

and so I’ve finally closed my door.

But one day I do plan to reopen,

that I do guarantee.

But when I do, I’ll have a new name,

“This Is The Place Called Me”

–Petula Caesar