Oh if it's true that only love can make a home
then why is it, when I'm surrounded, I feel so alone?
And if a set of walls and a roof don't mean a thing
then why is losing it releasing such a heavy storm within?

And He said
Hold on
Don't you let go
Stay strong
Somewhere along this road you'll find a home again.

I'm tired
It feels like everything I once held dear
it slowly fades away
Give me soms quiet
and let the moments turn to memories of those early summer days.

Tell me

Why are there no stars
on the other side
of the world

Why does the air I breathe
make me feel sick
to my stomach

Why does sleep make me feel tired
and being awake helpless

I was promised so much more
but what are promises for in the first place
when there's no blue blue sky
to hold me tight
and to whisper
everything will be alright

My heart is a shrivel of miagos bushes,
uprooted, shoved, chucked in new soil;
the leaves between my lips,
now, in an unhealthy shade of chartreuse.

Regardless, I have taught myself
to shear them into tiny leaf crumbs,
making trails —
marking the houses, the buildings,
the roads of this foreign city,
safekeeping directions
into a catalog of things that aren't home.

My feet are weary and somehow,
they manage to find their way
back in this cold, oppressive room.
And yet, how does one sleep under the glare of these walls?
How does one revive a dying garden
in a city that only knows
the language of tires as they kiss the pavements,
in a city that only knows
the walis tingting's weary sweeping
of these crumbs of miagos leaves —
the ones leading back home?

Yes,

I can teach my tongue and all its browning, dying leaves
to remember these new ways of growth,
these new words, new schedules,
new routes, new streets.

Alas, even the waters, even the sun
can't teach it to love the language it doesn't speak.