i walk down the earth,
barefoot,
feeling the old souls of grasses long
cut to dust
the sunshine like wine against my lips
honey on the skin that still hasn’t forgotten
your fingerprints
the outline of my feet stand tired in the dirt, wandering aimlessly
searching for something to drink to
fill up the gaps in my bones
am i home?
i think the answer is yes, since the sky here is
bluer than your eyes
and the dirt yields to my toes