All the world was mine.

How strange
That I might feel at home
In a stranger's arms,
And yet I was.

How lovely,
That he might sit at my table
And talk with me,
As friends,
And let me babble incessantly.

I'll not let go
of the hesitant "may I?" with a hand on an empty chair,
of the "thank you," pressed to an ear.

I will dance out the door
and into the arms of sleep.