Clandestine times, so it seems.
Little whispers in the back of my mind
waft over to me from across a sea
of rusted and waterlogged memories.

Been here before, a familiar ceiling
floating above my head while lying
perfectly still in my comfortable bed.

Familiar light shining through
familiar Venetian blinds making
familiar slats of illumination as
familiar motes of dust slow dance in
familiar tasting air.

Been here before, actually maybe I
never left. Maybe I hide here when
I don't want to see, or hear, or think.

Or feel.