A home is not defined by a mailbox at the end of the driveway
It is not made up of a white picket fence or a garden outside the front door
And its not something as simple as where you fall asleep
You might feel safe with the trees and you might be at peace with the waves
But that doesn’t make you fit to live among them
We were never meant to live in the celestial bodies above or below
And we’re not meant for our own skin
Home is the curve of her smile when she looks at you
Its about knowing her favorite words to wake up to
And your favorite words on her lips as you kiss her
Home is where her scent lingers on everything
Where you can still hear her laughter between the couch cushions
And knowing she is ticklish below her third rib but only on the left side
Its where you can still see her when you can’t remember what day it is
Home is where the eviction notice was nailed to the door
*~W.C.

you taught me how to slow dance
in the streets of spain
to the music of our friends
discussing football teams
with a group of boys from ireland,
and I taught you how to read
Shakespeare out loud without
stumbling over the words.
you quoted Neruda to me
over the dishes.
you took me to plant trees
in your grandfather's back yard,
I showed you how to make
a good martini,
and we talked about our childhood fears
and recurring dreams.
(no. we didn't. we never did
any of those things -- I remember
conversations with you
that I only ever had in my head
and fell in love with you over
fictitious memories. we never danced
together or watched the stars
or had *** in the backseat of your car.
I learned to slow dance in spain
from a boy whose name I can't remember,
I quoted Neruda to myself when I was drunk
and couldn't sleep,
I made memories with other people
and photoshopped you into them
because
it should have been you.
but who writes about that, right?
who writes about the ******* truth?)

Shut the **** up.**
It's hard dating anyone,
and *a poet's no different.

My hands are full of cement,
I do not forget.
Currents run through your fingertips,
I trace honesty along the edges of your ribcage.
Do not look back.
Your head is not a home for liars.
This is meant to be felt.
Come close,
I will show you how much you exist.
I do not forget.

I close my eyes.
There is a home inside here somewhere.
I remember.
It sinks slightly to the left.
My knees are covered in mud.
The trees have pushed into the living room,
sunflowers are rotting out the woodwork.
I have grown awkwardly into the floorboards.
They remind me that is okay.
I forget.
It keeps me full,
all this emptiness.
The windows are all open.
The hinges let go of every door.
I learn.
Trace the outline of each frame,
hear the echo of hollow footsteps:
"Love more,
love more,
love more."
I have never been here before.
This is what it must be like;
beginning.

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine