Silver #5525

Home is your hospital room At six o'clock on a Friday night, Shades drawn, door closed, An oasis amidst the tumultuous hive outside. Our pencils scratch softly at paper In the quiet stillness around us. As I paint pictures with words You write poetry with color and shape. No words pass between us, none are needed. In the comfortable dimness of our den We commune by soft glances Traded through the tinted glass we both wear. Here, by your side, A sense of safety and contentment I've not felt For so many years I have lost count, A solace I've no desire to relinquish. I am indeed unhoused, But how can I be homeless If I have you?