My home used to have a heartbeat;
it pulled me tightly to its chest.
My home smelled like smoke,
smoke and vanilla and earth.
I roll over in my bed, reaching.
I'm always reaching for something.
Only a balled up comforter and sheets,
they should've been washed yesterday.
I keep thinking I'll reach and feel home,
there will be warmth on the bed again--
gentle breathing to sing me to sleep.

Sleep became futile,
my arms made of lead.
Pinning me to the cold,
this residence is not my home.
I plead for my arms to rest,
but my fingertips keep stretching;
as if they could stretch into the past
and pull my home from the rubble.
The remnants of a lost foundation;
if my fingertips could mend.
My home was left behind in the wake.