Numbing

It'll be as if I am numb,
quiet distilled in my stomach and limbs,
and it'll be as if we never met,
walked, spoke, sung nor sat.
 
On Thursday I'll perch on the log,
smoke with gentle friend, let him in  
on a secret - this is where I come,
when false quiet meets bright, hardened unrest.
 
And we'll laugh upon board rooms my Gran stepped on,  
drink cider, I'll forget to breathe
as we weave new stories and unpick
the chasm that was left within me.  
 
He's tolerant, I'm tired of holding
this shell of a boat as a wall,  
so I let each fiddlestick cascade
until we're all just a bag of old bones.  
 
And for a moment I forget it all matters,  
the in between snapshots in time,  
truth is there are multiple ways to find
that delicious, necessary kind of numb.