It has been so long since I have been home–
Truly home, that is.
The walls, and the chairs, the bed, and the sheets
are all mine–
Books line the shelves, or clutter the floor.
Most in that state are not read.
Only if my Kindle device has nothing new.
(It almost always does.)
I gaze around me, slowly, a few familiars catch my eye,
But my attention is quickly drawn away.
Captured by some words on TV or music in my ears,
but only for a brief laugh or tear.
I talk to myself out loud, my own life coach.
Things look the same. Is this really the way it has always been?
No, I don’t believe I’ve been home for weeks, or months, maybe longer.
All the people I hold so close, they have not tread my floor.
Nor shown me their hearts; nor shared themselves,
except in dreams that so seldom come now,
it’s as though I don’t dream at all.
Efforts to remedy by phone or photo,
brings love no closer, except in some
static or static-y way. Yet it is cherished
for the moment or moments before the sight or sound
drifts away out of thought or memory.
Sleep has its advantages, but it does not mean to me
what it used to. I can stand missing the day-to-day doings–
at least I say that now. But oh, if I were to miss my chance at home,
how could I ever recover? Could I stand another wait?
Or is it a journey? I cannot tell. As I have said,
It has been so long since I have been home.
I feel forever. I remember not with random thoughts,
but my sense memory is eternal.
Holding on lasts longest, my arms still warm;
The scent and feel of skin, dry, moist, calloused, smooth;
Kisses remain on the mouth long after the lips have parted.
These memories are my map home.
I must be careful,;
not lose my way.
I wish you enough. . .