my house is not my home
until those who I adore
fill the space I so genuinely
despise when it is
empty
just as a body may exist
to be a home for paradoxical
heartbeats - human and souls perhaps -
as they coexist to mold experience
all locked up in memories
a time capsule of individuality
a genuine tribute to wisdom as we grow
all unique and beautiful

but most importantly a memoir of the most subtle happenstances
the perfect collage

my body exists in my house
but it does not live until human experiences
all locked up collide together
they make it home
we say “its the little things”
dents in hardwood, a broken door hinge

(youll fix it one day)

they make the space less expensive
the collage more understandable
less extravagant, more extraordinary
I hope and I pray that when my eyes wearily
open on a Tuesday morning
and I pull at my hair while looking in the
mirror
that I can recreate the feeling of wholeness
one day of a true home for myself
that is not simply physical  

I will forever laugh at the mess
I will be honored to clean it up
how lucky am I to have something so
beautiful because

at the end of the day
we are all just
walking
each
other

home