"Where's home for you?"
four words and the room stops spinning
where's home for me
I could laugh but I don't have the time
three beats is all I get to trip wildly through
house after house after house
after doors closed after bags packed
after boxes stacked after rooms lost
after heart-wrench after teeth-clench
after you
"A little town about twenty minutes from the Wisconsin border."
but it's not, is it?
"Oh, out in the suburbs?"
is it home if you've already made plans to leave?
it seems the trajectory of my life
is to only feel at home on my way out the door
my roommate says couch-jumping is still homeless
but how do you account for
the slivers of my heart left behind in each bed
the pieces I tucked behind baseboards
and stashed in the walls
where is home when a heart's stretched thin?
it's scattered in house after house after house
after band hallway after hands held
after heart-ache quelled after sanctuary
after soul quenched after park bench
after even you
"Where's home for you?"
four words and all I really want to say is:
everywhere I've ever laid my heart to rest
