Home is where the heart is, but  what if the heart is nowhere?

What if the heart is a tennis ball, volleyed from person to person,
place to place?

No comfort zone, no middle net, no ball crew to at least hold you back
before the next throw.

Slapped by racquets with surprising ease and frivolity, the heart is light,  airy,
but blackening slowly.

What if your heart wanders through the night,  an ebony  ghost, capturing,  entangling, enticing

those hearts that already have a home? Swiftly pumping yourself into them, hot scarlet blood for fixing yourself

Fixing them instead.

Their bodies,  minds, souls set alight with your fire, but the fire in you is quickly extinguishing.

You are dry rot and stale bread and wickless candles,  left in the sun
to decay.

But you are a saviour.

What if your heart was a weary traveller,  no home to speak of, no place to rest your head, therefore no heart to boast of?

What if your heart was an impenetrable facade, stolen features put into one,  
to hide ***** deeds, to owe no one?

What if your heart is your home, taking in yourself, and giving hope, sprouting
out the things everyone else owns
to hide the vulnerable reality
behind, alone?