(i'm rusty, words cracking from disuse. but the best part isn't the shell, but what's inside.
crack away, rust away, break open. words and words and words, just waiting. :) )
wherever i'm with you
home
is not the house painted brown
(though i love the chipped
mocha shade
that signifies the end
of a journey)
it is not the
bedroom that perpetuates
messiness through discarded clothes
suitcasesspilling
their contents after yet
another plane ticket, a couple hundred
gallons of gas (unleaded)
it is not the normalcy of
routines and waking up for a cup of
tea (chai, please) in pajamas
(old t-shirts from colleges i never went to)
but it is
the people who are there, waiting
brimming with their own stories
and
listening ears and open arms ready
to hold mine.
seasons
if i said that the world
breathed clarity ice blue onto
the grass, flushed the earth
pale with the shock of winter
would you know that
underneath all the dirt
tumbled tight under white
it was still summer somewhere?
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