Monday, April 18, 2011

Love is homeless.

 [June 2008, missingness and too far away]

Love is homeless (with room for the world).

He stumbles in unshaven and smelling
of affection.
He unpacks his bag.
I can hear him in the kitchen making breakfast,
He sings himself to sleep at night.

I listen, aching.

After some time and warming he invites me
to the home he's made in my abandoned space
into the stories I've told a hundred times
into the songs no one was meant to hear
into the cartwheels and scars
into the vineyards grown from mustard seed
confessions of hope and fear.

He invites me into myself
and I have nowhere else to go.



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