What I think about when I think about home, I cannot say.
For a home I do not know, for a home I cannot stay.
I’ve moved around so much there’s nothing stagnant in my life to go back to, even if I wanted.
I think about all of those who have came and left in my life and I feel that’s ok.
I find myself trying to hold onto things that are no good for me only because of it’s familiarity;
I’ve had a past, I grew up somewhere, I had a home.
I think about those in my life now and I get scared a little when I realize I know no one.
Maybe I never did.
I cover these thoughts with times of joy and work but still dream of long ascending walks through trees and dirt.
My family tells me to come home but I’m not too sure what they mean anymore.
I wonder what sort of life my child would live if she were to see the day.
I’d show her the world is our home.
The only place to come back to is within our hearts; and at some point,
each others arms.
If you haven’t already, check out some of the poetry I’ve been writing recently on Wattpad.
Until then, I’ll be trying to stay in with my books and newly found typewriter.
It’s been quiet lately;
I wonder where everyone is.