The Good place

Staring at your cleavage and contemplating the mysteries of the universe

You.
You are.
You are safe.
Are you safe?
Then why did you get pulled out of the high of anticipation,
missed a beat,
a minor sigh as you were
at the title of the sheet.
So, you're safe.
But are you
you?

Let us define the Frame Of Reference first.
It is a bubble of cosmic proportions.
Where you get a few meters and he gets the rest.
That's what I'd call equal portions.
He is a big blue monster
with a spikey exoskeleton and flowy fur,
squeezing you into existence
reluctantly making way for your persistence.
He’s slimy, wrapped around your teat.
Like a rusting bicycle engulfed by a tree.
His eyes; aimed at the slit.
(Please stop. That's not me!)

My universe is fascinated by your cleavage.
Believes it contains treasures of heavenly doom.
Why else would your girlfriends signal to cover it
as anyone enters the room?

I'm fascinated by his fascination
because I used to do it too.
Considered it as an act of courtesy
when all it was, a sign of oppression. (Et tu!?)

As I was enjoying this tunnel 'vision'
being fascinated by my fascination about his fascination,
I think the bubble was experiencing attrition.
Something about social inappropriation.
The monster is afraid now.
"No one can have it, if not us."
Hold on, he must.
But a huge thrust
and he's thrown a million miles away.
You're sanctified.
Objectified.
Fortified
in chains without a sway.

I meet him everyday, my universe.
Still fascinated by the way of things.
Looking forward to treasures of blings.
Albeit you can't miss
the spikey fur made of hair-on-edge.
Wondering,
if the white wall comes with an accusation
of sacrilege?

And I too wonder miss,
in this bout of pseudo-recitation -
If you imagined I was there with you?
If you can recount the number of times
you had to pull that shirt up,
as we went through?
Or were you amiss?
Were you, You?