Several times, I spoke to you and said that your arms are my home.
The eviction notice came shortly after, coffee stained and stapled to my forehead.
My house still stands and I have a warm bed to sleep in,
so isn't it lovely how I can build a new home in my head?
I tried this summer to find the meaning of what that should be
and happened across your outstretched arms
only seeing in hindsight that I had pried them open.
You were meant to be a kind word, never soft skin.
Sitting at the bottom of a snowy hill,
yelling to the top
I realized home is where I've been heading.