Comfortable

The chair fits perfect now.

That's years of sitting, that fit.

The route to work drives itself,

the week runs on its rails.

And everything hums so quietly,

so warm, so well-arranged,

that you could miss the small print:

nothing here has happened in years.

And nobody drowns in comfort loudly —

you just stop swimming, warm.

Comfortable — it's not the same as living,

it just looks the same from outside.

Comfortable — the softest way to vanish,

no scene, no scar, no sound.

The days go down like warm milk.

Comfortable.

I'm not preaching from a mountain.

I've got a chair that fits me too.

I've caught myself defending it

with words I'd never chosen —

"realistic," "settled," "grown."

Grown into what, exactly?

The shape of the seat?

Careful. That shape keeps.

And nobody drowns in comfort loudly —

you just stop swimming, warm.

Comfortable — it's not the same as happy,

it's just quieter about the lack.

Comfortable — the debt with gentle terms,

you pay in appetite.

The years go down like warm milk.

Comfortable.

And one morning you'll reach for a wanting

and find the drawer empty.

Ask anyone who kept sitting.

Ask them what's on the telly.

Comfortable — it's not the same as living,

it just looks the same from outside.

And the cure costs nothing and everything,

and it's two words long:

stand up.

Stand up.