my temple is a drape of sound,
and a weighted bliss

wet, but dry sounds of tubes,
masking your face,

and melting all but joy away

from your skull
from your jaw
from your skin

pain drips off your chin like wet paint,
leaving only the comfort to harden and set

a shell of warm sound,
both encapsulating,
and resonating throughout the outer layer of bones in your body

the lights are quiet,
and your vision matted

an untouchable carpet of nothing,
you can see it, and feel the darkness on your body

the sound is a soothing steel,
and the sound is warm,

against your forehead,
around your temples

this is my place of existence