Comfort: A Jones
Comfort
means to me: freedom. The ability to inhabit any space, regardless of
the shape and size of the space, and feel at home in it; to live in,
thrive in, the feeling of that space. Comfort is being yourself in a
room full of everybody’s who aren’t you. Comfort is the truth of your
experience as a human. Comfort is soft skin on your body after a train
ride home when all you want and need is sex and throw pillows. Comfort
is a fabric that feels like something your grandmother made. Comfort is
an understanding amongst peers on bar stools, drunk on slurred speech
and lost credit cards…those moments inconceivable, never retrievable. It
is so real you could swim in the life of it. And even, just for a
millisecond, you know what the truth is. Its in there, somewhere, poking
holes in your sleep. You should be awake now.
Where
you stumble on each other for air, and the oxygen you’re getting is
confused with cigarette circle smoke jacking you up. It’s the composite
of the memories wrapped in some cellophane you keep around under the bed
and pull out, with the fine china and the good dinnerware and the
cutlery your granny saved when the “company” came over. You can find it
in the last subway car, or the first dreary eyed stare from a stranger
who looks like your ex, and you can imagine how they would smell after a
rainy day shopping together, hoping her hand brushes yours, painting
the hairs that are standing red for roses, hoping twixt all the feelings
imaginable in a sentence unspoken or phrase uttered under the tension
of a held breath; and you plant them in the concrete and jump over the
cracks because you know we’re a superstitious folks.
Its
that letting go and letting God and letting guards and letting gums be
gums, guns be guns, books be books, for the reading. All things can be
read, you know? All things can be seen if you want to see them. And you
can even see them for what they are. So read something. Read something
to me. Tell me I’ll be okay. Tell me that the juju inbetween your smells
and lust and thigh taps will do me right. Do right by me. Do, write by
me. Beside me. Besides me, who else is that? A comforter, a
blanket…warmth. They give all that off. But, not like you. I read you.
Lick index finger, pause, *inhale*, chest deflates, and turn you. Into
some sorta pigmy flesh of a thing that I web around the fingers, my
fingers, for real. Like that. Yes.
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