home was grandiose in the poems
so it didn't exist.
it had to be fantasy
where there weren't tears on your tuxedo
but the alcohol stains of acceptance. and love?
love couldn't fly away on an aeroplane;
love stayed.
and clouds didn't swell into
empty promises; they
gathered their things and rained.
yes, you don't believe in home anymore
but god, you miss it.
so you'll drink beer at the ballet and pretend
that home is in the poems you've written today.