october 21, 2019

Spacey

home isn't a place.

it's her voice when she picks up at 2 am
it's puffy blankets and your arms around my waist as our bodies melt into a different world
a better one
when the heaviness of her breath becomes my most sacred lullaby
one where we don't belong anywhere, but everywhere
it's the first breath after an anxiety attack
eyes closed. clear. no fuzziness. nothing extra.

air.

in.



out.

and the calmness that halos over my chest as my heart beats to a new melody
home is where I am and where I am not
so where do I go?
where the ugliness of love rings truest in its utter beauty
because to love is not to idealize perfection
but perhaps to wallow in the tale that home is where the heart is
and that despite it all, they are imperfect in the most exquisite of ways
because I am, too
but she picks up anyways.