The safest place I know

Not in these lines or the sound of my keyboard. 
Not in the enveloping rumble of a low wave. 

This is the safest place I know. 
Not in the stillness of dawn. 
Not in the decaying afternoon light.
And not always in your eyes. 

This is the safest place I know. 
Not in the grounding pain of life. 
Not in the soaring hope of surrender.
Maybe in your smile, sometimes.

This is the safest place I know. 
Not in the pace of my breath.
Not in the mood swing of dreams, 
But often in a faraway look. 

This is the safest place I know. 
Enclosed in the idle thoughts. 
Fumbling in deep currents of fears. 
Awakened in the music of possibilities. 
Weighed by the gravity of catastrophes.

This is the safest place I know. 
In the muse of obsession. 
In the rumination of unlikely probabilities.
In the unassuming prayer to skeptical gods.

The safest place I now is a cave underwater. 
The pressure resonating in my ears and chest. 

It’s the subtle laugh that carries me. 
The turbulence of unrevealed emotions. 
The buzz of unmeasured ideas.

The safest place I know is often
the vibration of expectation.
The energizing illusion of hope. 
The gravity of uncertainty.

The safest place I know is the first sentence in a story. 
The clumsy rhymes in a poem.