We're all in a box
In the middle of the ocean
Filled with families and things to do
And we stay in this box, and live
And become accommodated
And build a relationship
With the box with all the people
And it becomes a routine

You can choose to leave the box
Choose to venture out
Meet locals of various boxes
Unique beings
Who can touch you by a different culture
Or you can choose to stay
And make the box your home
Sometimes there are people
Who move from box to box
Quite often
Never really finding a home

One day
A cute blonde with blue eyes and
A love of excitement
And a love for the idea of finding
Someone she actually loves
Was sent on an incredible adventure
Out of the box
Into the open ocean
A truly remarkable
Time to speand
To make the best of

At the same time
A boy from another box
Was sent on the same route
Away from small mindedness and into vastivity
And they met
And bonded
And told stories
And made their own.

The 2 became attached
And shared a love
Even after they returned from their adventures
And it never faded
Maybe forgotten, tucked away
But never gone
Always present

Today they still share a love,
A love so strong and so willing to sacrifice money time and energy, anything that could bring the 2 back together
So she can hold him again and rub her cheek and lips on his neck and feel his warmth around her when she gets lost in his embrace
She felt like the lucky one
For once
She felt so special and so happy
That she ignored the terrible things about the box
And just sat back and thought about his crooked smile and loose lips
And remembered that he was thinking about her too

He became her idea of home
From 3,200 miles away

Home is not a proper place
has no address, no fixed abode

It may not lay along a certain path
or at the end of any road

For each of us its different
what makes it so we cannot see

For myself I know that I'm not there
whenever you are not with me

My home exists within your hand
when it is wrapped in mine

When our bodies come together
a warm embrace, legs intertwined

Geographically speaking
home can be here, it can be there

but there is no place' feels more like home
than the pillow that we share.

I don't know what I am doing here.
At least I feel safe, for the moment.

This seat is warm from my heat.
They are talking but I do not know them.

I am lost in my own exhausted world.
I never knew how well the word malaise fit me.

This private access to your face stays upon my lap.
It is feeding from the outlet in the wall.

I am only exacerbating my addiction.
I am addicted to your face.

Your beautiful, careless face.
It makes me sick, but I can't resist.

What am I doing here?
I'm uncomfortable within my own skin.

I'm itching for a way out from the inside.
Spiders are stepping gracefully upon my veins.

I'm swimming in nausea.
My eyes are shifting to and fro.

My head is the worst of it all.
These thoughts of you are eating me alive.

Because I'm not supposed to be
thinking of you.
I should be thinking
of him;
but when had we decided we
were in love?
He assumed, I'm sure.
I don't remember ever discussing it.

And you.
Look at you assuming things
just like he has.

But I don't care to tell you
you're wrong
because
you're right.

You remind me of that boy;
the one who smelled

sweet

in the summer time.
Immature and
out of sync --
I pretended to love
all that he was.

I hate to say it to myself,
but you remind me of him
sometimes.
The way you laugh and the way
you act
throws me into terrible
recollections
of days best forgotten.

And yet,

Here I am searching for
your blue eyes and
your left handed scribble
and
that mess of brown hair--
characteristics of every man
I've really loved--
and that scruff you call a beard,
black shirts and forced smiles.

I'm aching for your voice
mumbling incoherently into my hair;
aching for your arms,
warm and strong
and soporific; aching for
your lips
warm and sweet
pressed against mine,

as they were that one night
upon the dance floor:
quick and only once
but enough to make me cry.

I'm only making things
worse for myself.
I'm barely getting along in this house--
I've run out of things to do
and things to say
and things to think
to myself,
yet I sit still here
imitating your presence before
me, telling myself

it's only so long
until Saturday.

Quite unexpectedly, as Vasserot
The armless ambidextrian was lighting
A match between his great and second toe,
And Ralph the lion was engaged in biting
The neck of Madame Sossman while the drum
Pointed, and Teeny was about to cough
In waltz-time swinging Jocko by the thumb—
Quite unexpectedly the top blew off:

And there, there overhead, there, there hung over
Those thousands of white faces, those dazed eyes,
There in the starless dark the poise, the hover,
There with vast wings across the cancelled skies,
There in the sudden blackness the black pall
Of nothing, nothing, nothing—nothing at all.

does anyone even know i'm still here?
covered in every holiday imaginable -
easter, christmas, halloween, even the last owner's menorah.

i'm full of dust
and i'm not sure of
the last time i saw light
from under the collection
of all things forgotten.

these curtains
that hang over my edge
have got psychedelic swirls
of orange and brown.
i can't tell
if it's *****
or a design.

eyes peer up
over my ledge
periodically, but
no one seems to see me
buried beneath
the mountainous
memories that i've collected.

loan gloves call out
for their partners
and their voices go hoarse
over the years,
but they never quit.
my ears grow tired of
their low pleading groans.

prized possessions
that once put human's
eyes aglow now sit
in sorrow and stew in the
realization that they have
truly been forgotten,
much like myself.

i remember the hands
that cut me
from an old oak
in mississippi.
i wonder if those hands
remember me.