comfort is
Comfort is not a feeling.
It’s a person, a place an object.
Comfort is having a best friend,
Someone who will make you tea in the middle of the night,
An ever present shoulder to cry on.
Comfort is the hidden cove,
The beach full of perfect pebbles,
Water gently lapping at your toes,
Always there, never changing.
Comfort is a childhood blanket,
Old and worn,
Softened by years of cuddling and drying your tears,
Still embracing you in a warm hug every night.
Comfort is found in the small things.
It is a scent, a sound, a touch.
Comfort is the waft of a familiar smell,
The lingering trace of a Christmas tree,
Or your mom’s perfume,
The aroma of a new book.
Comfort is music to your ears,
Waves crashing,
Rain pattering on a tin roof,
A sibling singing in the shower.
Comfort is the caress of the wind,
Soft against your skin.
A warm hand reaching out,
Enveloping your own.
Comfort is wearing someone’s shirt to bed,
Just to feel close to them.
Comfort is resting your head on a loved one’s chest,
Hearing their steady heartbeat.
Comfort is feeling certain about where you belong,
Where you are safe, steady, loved.