I spend too much time searching for home in people
I compare too many of them to the likes of it
I find new ones often and always
And I have made routine in my arrival
I set down my things, make myself comfortable
Find a spot next to the fireplace, directly in the presence of warmth
I curl between blankets and couches
I get to know the surroundings
I notice parts that most tenants would neglect to
Details are my specialty; I note each down with a sense of clarity
I create a photo album in my head for every part I should not remember
But I do, almost effortlessly
All of my senses take notes in permanent ink
I keep track of scent, sound, taste, touch, images
I engrain them into muscle memory
I begin to forget that this place I have settled in,
Isn’t mine to get used to
And when I have overstayed my welcome,
I am asked to go
I pack up, leaving most of me behind in the hurry
Once again I am forced to move and start over
I always do.

I look for home in too many people who’s hearts aren’t available for lease,
Bodies that are merely curtains hiding wreckage
I knock on locked doors hoping for an invitation inside
And the ones that are open are usually not prepared for company
I move in eagerly to creaky floorboards and leaking roofs
I pretend that there is nothing wrong with the structure
And when the house caves in I claim I didn’t know better
I willingly stand under shelter that doesn’t have the strength to hold even itself up
Then complain about the lack of protection when the rain comes
Natural disasters are as unpredictable as I am eager for constancy
But it is no fault but my own when I build upon fault lines
I know the weather forecast and still continue to create
I have become skilled at making something out of nothing
And nothing, I’ve learned, can only stretch for so long.