A few years back,
I was told
that a home
didn't have to be
made of brick,
or stone,
or wood,
or concrete.
A home can be
a person
made of flesh
and bone,
fragile and delicate,
but warm enough
to make you feel
safe
on a cold winter's night.
And that,
to me,
you were;
arms like a cavern,
chest like a bed,
but too
frail
to be a
permanent comfort.
Just this night,
however,
make me your resident,
even if it'll only seem
like a treacherous
daydream
when you're sober
in ten hours.
But until then,
keep me
sweet and serene
in your touch,
help me forget
the probability that
I'll be homeless
in the morning.
YOU ARE READING
Specks Of Stardust #Wattys2015
Poetry❝ And when midnight strikes and the ink spills through the page, all that you are becomes stardust. ❞ In which a girl writes about the words unspoken, the feelings unresolved, the memories unforgotten, and the boy who caused them all.
