Massage

You run your fingers down my back
Softer, harder, rhymically, faster, slower,
Deep into the knots that represent
My inability to sit up straight.
The lotion smells faintly of fields
But it feels good against my tired muscles.
The soft music drifts to my ears
Relaxing the thoughts of work and play
To a dull buzz in the background.
The blankness is what I long for
During sleep, when I only get nightmares
And confusing dreams of the future.
Too soon, you are finished,
And I must return to the harshness,
The realities of life.