Refuge

Her place,
Is not somewhere foreign, somewhere polished.
It is not a widespread location; it is not special to the average person.
It is not a place where childhood memories lie,
Or where she can hang out with her friends.
Her place is one of refuge.
Hers is one where she can cry into the night and no one hears but the calm wind,
The wind who whispers back.
No one hears but the fluttering butterfly, the walls, the window, the alley down below.
No one judges, no one tells.
They just listen.

She sits,
On a window sill, curled up, watching the moon shine,
Watching the sun die.
She talks of her day, her feelings, her dreams.
She can be herself when there’s no one else.
She talks, or smiles, or cries, or laughs, retells the tales of present, and past.
There’s a second floor view, of the street below, and the second floor view is the best she’s known,
For being able to relieve everything.
She can rest her head against the glass, and thank the stars above.
For being there for her.
And just listening.

Her place,
Is not a sparkling, pristine resort, or a story to be told.
It is not a place where people gather to worship,
Or where her first of anything happened.
Her place is one of serenity.
Hers is one where if the walls could talk, she’d be in trouble.
Where she can look down on other lives and forget hers,
Where the night carries her burdens and her joys, where the cool glass traps her feelings.
No one judges, no one tells.
They just listen.

That place is hers.
That place is mine.
That place is my refuge.