Coming Home


I wanted to write a book before I left this place,
so, you’d know,
who I was,
what I was,
where I was going.
It never really seemed like home.

Cold and stone marked my comings and goings,
mornings and nights,
successes and failures,
loves and losses.

I came (back) here with hopes of finding you,
crawling inside the scent of you, until we breathed as one.

You lost me, and found me, and lost me again,
taking a piece each time you left.

I drink to your oblivion, and smoke to the faded beauty, I still see when I look at you,
when you touch me.
Caressing parts you know so well…
I buckle from your touch.

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