Gravitation

I am home when we pull off our trail-weary walking boots,

when you point to the tartan patchwork rug and turn on the news.

I am home when you draw me into your arms atop this windy world,

searching for the warmth, that memory of bliss.

I am home with every Rooibos teabag I find underneath my shirts,

locked far away in unfamiliar hotels next to ever revealing roads.

I am always home when the second verse of our favourite song plays,

on a radio in the kitchen of a cafe, championed loudly by the dancing chef.

I am home in your smile, the one I find in a thousand places,

half-recognised in strangers, familiar inside that leather wallet from Paris.

I am home breathing calmly, inbetween your words of stoic confidence,

whenever I conceal your ghost into my most feared meetings.

I am home every Tuesday, when the murder mystery series comes on,

gravitating there, no matter where I am or where you are.

I am home in the darkness, even though it plays tricks on me,

it hides my red wine, and how you will never be home again.