What it means to leave a home that you’ve made for yourself,
is like a reluctant separation from a lover…

You never do fall out of love,-
Just out of reach.

Destiny, like the forces of nature, has made it so no matter what is in place already, it demands prominence with each new occurrence,
And you are accommodating,
For you are a mere mortal who has fleeting feelings
That no one else can feel
But we feel it all similarly.

Uprooted
Time and time again
Transplanted from my comfort zone
To a new place where I have no friends
Shipped off
Away from those I love
Forced to start over from scratch
In a new and hostile living environment
Thrown out
Kicked to the curb
Sent sprawling to the pavement
Isolated once again from all I'm used to

Is it any wonder I'm messed up?
I've got nowhere to call my own
I've been forcefully torn away from
Every place I've ever called home

Dandelion dreams wisped from
The lips of summers past,
Lips tasted
And gilded became the cage,
So to, ushered,
My sense of belonging.
I tried to move on,
An couldn’t
And she knew it;
She knew that I couldn’t
The moment –
I’d fallen upon her lap
As she grabbed one more
Dandelion
And took one more breath
And blew the dead petals
Whilst making the wind somehow
Dance, and I,
The fool once more –
In love and unable to flee.

Call me back to home.
Don't make me walk alone.
Take me to the place I belong.
Teach me again how to be strong.
Please let me stay there.
Free my short red hair fly free.
Yes fly free just like me.

I live in strange cities and talk with strangers
About things dear to me
I walk on alien paths and eat foreign food
And remember
I paint **** women, their hips large
Dark hair and full *******
And I know
We all seek perfection, not knowing
We are already perfect
I sing, my notes rise and fall endlessly
Like a swallow in the endless skies
And I praise
Hosanna in the highest
And as the dust motes dance in the wintry sun
In my wooden church, I am transported
To singing with Irish nuns
My skin browner, in a country of heat and dust
A country of mangoes and temples
Of saffron and silks
And as I don my jeans
Memories of my mother’s swishing silks
Take me home
But I live in strange cities and talk with strangers
And home is just another four letter word

Today I am drawn to Picasso's blue period.
looking for beach-side tragedies in grey fog,
seeing backs where I should see faces.
Everything is askew, backwards, sad.
There is no reason, just rhythm, a muffled drumbeat reminder:
You don't belong here.

You were never whole and don't know what that's like.
Where you are marching,
something at the edge pulls you toward
something else
and that's why you chase it.

My father says we are all part of the same hand.
The distance is nothing.
He pulls his fingertips together, pads kissing the tip of the thumb.
Separateness is an illusion, he says.
It can disappear in an instant.

I am the missing finger
the one lost in a thresher or blown off by a misfired gun.
There isn't even bleeding anymore.
I'm the itching ghost where the finger used to be.
What can you do?
Piece together a life, as if it matters.
Put one foot in front of the other.
March, march, march
Until the moment it slips.

Soften the focus, dim the lights
and maybe you're not such a ghost anymore.
It's that other life, the one on the other side,
and all you have to do is fall.

The pieces of my soul crack under forbidden touches
Yearning for more
I don't care if I become undone
Feeling the passion
Is worth more than the pain
Of numbness
I want to feel
Revel in the kisses and touches
That come from you
But belong to me
More
I want more
Of you