Ridges

I write in monstera filled rooms,
in alien light and Spring-Summers,
write like your ship doesn't float  
in a chamber of aqueous humor  
when the sun has left this city.  
I recall home.  
In road maps can see channels flooding
with reasons not to leave,    
safe binds to a place  
more sense than air  
but you are there  
in the inbetween,    
security beacon blazing,  
keeping one finger
on our memories to pass  
the aging days.