Amelia
A woman on my old television screen told me that living in the streets doesn’t make you homeless.
It makes you houseless.
So I guess that’s why ocean and desert valley haven’t seemed to offer much lately except places to
sleep
eat
lay in bed
look at the ceiling wondering
when everything will come together.
But the world just seems to work that way where you spend so much time painting
L O N E L Y
across your chest
and faces
and your hands that you put together
and make everything a blur
even though it’s only a perception.
So tell me why beds can’t ever be comfortable enough
for me to lay and say
this is home
and where I belong.
Teach me
then
why your arms create home
across my back
along my chest.
Your fingers on my face say
this is home
this is where you belong.
Your smile against mine
is the go home
and rest
feeling I haven’t known for a while.
And this all happens in the same beds
that were physical manifestations of loneliness.
No driveway I park in
or
door I walk through
or
couch I sit on
or
window I look out of
or
mirror
can mean home as much as
your legs entwined with my own
arms searching for where to be
eyes knowing exactly where to look.
