My Home

You are my simple life,
my home at the end of the road.
I’ve traveled far, hoisting the problems
of a million strangers on my shoulders.
Oh, I can’t wait
to lay them on your doorstep someday
and worry about them
no more.

On your small wooden table,
a cold glass of water awaits.
I’ll drink it with glee
while looking out your window
at the warring worlds
I’ll leave behind.

My tired feet shall be washed
by the cool water from your
innumerable taps
as red flowers from your trees
rain down upon my greasy hair.

They’ll caress my forehead
like a mother to a baby

like you used to caress my head
’til I drowned in your warmth.

I shall climb your soft bed,
wrapping the sheets about me
and I shall close my eyes at last
dreaming of dreams about you.

Because, my dear,
my thin chest is heaving

talking in conversations that don’t end,
working in offices that don’t close,
drinking bottles that never empty;

though all I really want is to go back
to nights
when we never
looked behind
and all we did was look forward
to our hands
held tightly ’til the dark died.

How many Mondays to go?
Your roof is nowhere in sight.

Oh, how I would exchange all the here and now!
To skip a thousand days
and grow old
decades in an instant,
just to lay these useless memories on your doorstep
and hug you,
kiss you
good night.


Filed under Love, Poems

4 responses to “My Home

  1. Chemae

    High five! Galing! ❤

  2. Chemae

    I love you, honey. 🙂 Yiiiiiii!

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