#cominghome
Home was never just a place,
it was the way the air held you,
thick with spices, old wood,
laundry soap clinging to late afternoons,
and something unnamed
that only existed there.
It lived in the corners,
in laughter that didn’t need finishing,
in friends who entered without knocking,
in the quiet understanding
of being known without speaking.
You carried it with you when you left,
folded between shirts,
hidden in the lining of memory,
a scent you’d catch in strangers’ kitchens
that almost—almost—felt right.
Years stretched.
Cities changed their faces around you.
You learned new streets, new silences,
new ways to be alone.
::but home::
Home stayed suspended somewhere behind you,
untouched, unmoving,
exactly as you left it.
::until you returned::
And there it was,
the same creak in the floorboards,
the same light slanting through the window,
the same familiar smell
rising to meet you like an old song.
For a moment,
everything aligned,
past and present collapsing
into a single breath.
But then,
something slipped.
The laughter echoed differently.
The rooms felt smaller,
or maybe you had grown around them.
Friends smiled the same,
but their lives had learned to continue
without you.
Even the scent,
that sacred, impossible scent,
was softer now,
as if time had thinned it
or you had forgotten how to breathe it in.
You walked through it all
like both a stranger and a ghost,
recognizing everything,
belonging nowhere.
Home had waited --
but it had also lived.
And so had you.
And somewhere between
what remained
and what had changed,
you realized --
home is not something you return to.
It’s something you outgrow,
you carry,
you lose,
and search for again and again
in places that will never
quite smell the same.
::home::
Mar 28
Mar 28, 2026 at 1:28 PM UTC
I've ran away so much that
I've forgotten where my home is.
can you lead me back to You?
Apr 9, 2022
Apr 9, 2022 at 8:02 PM UTC
Charcoal curls, green grounds
Brown branches, sienna shades
On pale paper of cold cotton
An arousing adventure…
Sep 8, 2021
Sep 8, 2021 at 3:02 PM UTC
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
Aug 19, 2021
Aug 19, 2021 at 10:06 PM UTC
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.
08 NOV 2020
Nov 8, 2020
Nov 8, 2020 at 8:12 PM UTC
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.
Sep 26, 2020
Sep 26, 2020 at 4:35 PM UTC
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
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 10:57 AM UTC
You know the song
So bring it on.
Football is the theme,
And England is our team.
We invented the modern game,
So losing is a shame.
But we are going to win.
Let the celebrations begin.
Bring on Croatia,
We know we can outpace ya.
As for France,
We’ll lead them a merry dance.
If it’s Belgium we’re happy too,
They always let you through.
Though nothing is ever certain,
Until the final curtain.
We’re owed (a lot) from Lady Luck,
But so long as we win, I don’t give a…
It’s time we won again,
Making boys into men.
I really hope we win:
Prepare for quite a din.
History could be made
That will never ever fade.
Paul Butters
© PB 9\7\2018.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 3:19 PM UTC
▪◇▪ ▪◇▪
her cough
is a song
her silence
is that of healing
i hope
i hope
she is here
near enough
for me to hear
the sighs
i welcome her sighs
her
tired bones
i send hugs
to the next room
blow sweet kisses
there will be
no acknowledgement
it matters not
her cough
is a song
to me
▪◇▪▪◇▪
Copyright © 2017.
Christi Michaels.
MoonFlower-Fluer de Luna
All Rights Reserved.
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 10:25 PM UTC
this rush I feel
makes me ill
you left and now you're gone
but today you're coming home
a.v.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 7:46 AM UTC