Where the heart is; sometimes a familiar place Most of the time has heartbeat and a pair of eyes A room filled with ray of hope; your favorite space Arms that wrap your flaws while you cry
Hands that touches your soul and make you whole Walls that protect you and make you feel safe A fire lit that keeps you warm when you lose control Thine soul who embrace and accept your imperfect shape
Solid foundation that carry your weight of regrets and mistakes An open door where you find the sense of belonging Dim light that brings comfort and stop your aches A warm breathe you will always look forward in the morning
Wherever that person go; it felt like coming home to a being Home isn't a place; it's a feeling
Stop pretending that you know what he’s going through. Stop wanting to make him feel normal. Stop trying to keep him sane. Stop doing things to help.
You can’t. He knows it. You know it. You are fighting a battle that doesn’t need to be fought.
Love the parts of him that you consider busted. Accept the things that are not normal. Embrace the fact that a sane person could not do what he did and be what he is. Do the things that make him happy and not the things that are helpful.
He deserves to be who he is without giving up what he has become. Not everything that is broken needs to be fixed. Sometimes it’s better to love the mess rather than clean it up.
Is it the red crescendoing of trees lining the icy lake? Or the pebbles popping under the rubber wheels of my old car? Is it the warmth of picking up wool scarves from their summer cocoons? Being shaken out and wrapped around cold necks? Is it this lower state's familiar weather, blending brisk wind with bright sun? The way it heats the second-floor windows in the frigid mornings? Is it the scents of sage and roasting meat floating through the door, welcoming me home? Or the mismatched pairs of shoes kicked under the hallway bench?
It might be this last bit of Cabernet slowly tumbling to top my cup, or the ceaseless squeak of my childhood bed. But yes, something calls me here, back to the beginning. Back to the autumns of our home.
I half expected half hoped that you'd walk back through that front door again and it scares me knowing that I don't know when or if you ever will again because at this point I won't be there when you do
Part two in a series of poems written over the course of several months