Asleep on the Couch

Ten feet maybe more from me, I could smell cigarette smoke. And their cherry’s burned like fireflies dancing in the dark. My parents sat and talked in quaint tones of secrecy.

This was their nightly ritual. And I was their occasional audience. They spoke of everything in complete truth and equal insecurity. And the times I woke I listened. But I nevertheless felt at ease listening to what they wouldn’t speak of during the day.

The ashtray was always full. And the coffee pot was always filled with that black delicious liquid and welcoming aroma. But as I child I only liked the smell, I’d never bother to taste.

Later in life I understood of what these meetings comprised. The strenuous way life bends our timid souls. And we confide in another for release of the bindings on our heart, so it may beat again in rhythmical fashion.

Consider this, my words to you; our meeting at that very table. Where we’d unshackle our hearts, given voice to our dilemmas. Life is always so binding, but the release of the self is where the beauty lays.

On that moonlit table my parents sat. Their voicing of inner dialogue, suppressed by the day. And unbridled by night.