Spilled Ink from the Vault

My brain synthesised theory and experience
with a dash of innate sense, a desire coded deep 
within the cellular blueprint of the fabric of my being, 
and I had ideas, predictions, hopes about how it would feel. 
Not physically, I was warned enough 
that the first time might hurt,
that it was awkward and messy, 
and technique might take practice.  
But emotionally, mentally, 
I had expectations of peace and safety, of more
than merely peak physical pleasure, 
of a shroud of calm welfare 
descending like mist around my entire being,
and I just assumed I had been mistaken. 
But here, the slide into subspace is
the most natural thing in the world,
and the view may be hazy but I trust
I am protected. And I lie in the mingled warmth
of our afterglows, in his arms, my head on his chest,
and I know not how I predicted the depth of this comfort, 
but my brain was not wrong in its idealistic meanderings,
and as I sink further into this sweet contentment
I hear the Irish lilt that calls me his, that calls me a good girl,
and it calls me a wonderful lover,
and when I wake the next morning
in my own bed and alone, still drifting slowly
out of subspace, a feather gliding gently on still air,
I know both that this is not even as good as it gets,
and that his voice will reside in my memory, those words
echoing through future years, a welcome earworm 
to remind me of progress and healing, and that it was never
me who was the problem.