The living room table

Running my fingers through the fabric

of the carpet

looking at the wooden plate 

above me,

I find comfort in thinking that this

could be my world.

In thanking the tablecloth

for its blessed length

and darkness

letting in almost no light,

but red,

I find myself craving

solitude,

and 

the sound of distant music

only increases the feeling of

oneness,

harmony,

singularity.

While the stillness of the air

gives me time to count every

speck of dust,

I find comfort

in thinking that this 

could be my world,

and

as I pull up my feet

in foetal position

feeling the weight of being

slowly releasing

the pressure on my temples.

Warming up

as my surface decreases,

I find comfort

in thinking that this

could be all.