Home

I like it when you send me pictures of houses.

It's fun to covet the walk-in showers,

the glowing countertops,

the curated rock gardens.

We're like a pair of broke hermit crabs window shopping at Tiffany's,

fantasizing of squeezing our asses into some diamond-encrusted seashells.

Envy gets you high on pain, but

I was cured of the disease when you got sick.

The night you spent in the emergency room

I couldn't stop thinking of those houses;

they're nothing but cold sculptures,

still-life imitations of living spaces—

bricks, tiles, and granite encasing nothing.

I understand what home means now,

because all night my thoughts scratched in circles

like a record needle sucking up the vibrations of a heartbreak:

Come home, babe. Please come home. Just come home.