Homeless


I have always found comfort in the world,

within myself.

But now you are gone and I torture myself by

remembering all the things I memorized:

The texture of your skin against my thumb,

the solidness of your arms around my waist,

the joy of our shared laughter

in the dim light of your room.


The familiarity of your memory taunts me

because you are no longer mine

and I do not think I have the

right to pretend you still could be.


You became my home.


Or close enough to it that in your absence

I feel restless in my skin.

Not even in your things does my heart lie,

empty promises of a life

I destroyed.


I am so close to drowning.


Sinking without an anchor,

taking myself to the bottom.

It is easier this way and my heavy heart

does all the work

anyway. 


The heaviness has settled in now

and I fear it will make a home out of me 

the same way I made one out of you.

But while this feeling exists in me, I must

accept I can not exist with you.


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