I don’t know where I’m from
but I’d like to
call you home
and run through your halls
with the innocence of new fingers
pressing preserve prints
against your skin
and staining the walls.

The way my mother
warned me
I would.

I’ll let you spill
sun across
my swollen eyes
as I sigh the sleep out
of this house that’s still
settling. I’ve never stuck around
long enough to know
how long
that takes.
But while we wait,
I think I’ll settle
in and sip your
coffee, pressed
fresh from France—another place
we don’t belong to
but the sound of it
is sweet enough
that I don’t need
to call it your sugar
to know where
it came from.

And just before the sun goes someplace
we’ve never been
and the cold air creaks in
through your bones,
we’ll open doors
and see the rooms
we built together
in this place that
we didn’t grow up
in, but learned
to call our
home.