Homeless?

Home is nebulous

Multifaceted. Unformed. Everywhere. Nowhere. A mirage in the desert, shifting, close then achingly far.

Sometimes I feel like a stranger in the land.

Foreign. Outsider. Unwanted. Unknown.

I have no roots, and it is not a romantic notion, it is the ugliness of isolation and the pain of desertion.

I am a cliché; I am surrounded by people and so remarkably alone. Wallflower on the edge, wildflower in a field of roses. I am a cliché and I am a thing that I hate.

Adrift, free, trapped. Homeless.

Homeless inside the four walls I have lived in for years now, my creature comforts don’t comfort the creature I’ve become.

I am a creature, yet I am not a bear in a trap. I have wings; better than that, I have a car and I can go, run seek

And find; the smile of my mother, a kiss from my dog, the laugh of my father and I am loved, seen, known again.

Home.

Home is a cramped hotel room on a family trip. Loud, small, safe.

Home is a bottle of wine shared with friends, and the drunkenness of exhaustion.

Home is a song in the car where I don’t know whether to scream or cry.

Home is an unexpected gift, that whispers I see you, I see you

Home is tea and a blanket and a book that envelops me

Home is a man with a thousand masks, changing and constant, always in reach, if I try.

Home is so many things, and I think how

lucky,

favored,

blessed

I am.

To be a wanderer with a thousand homes.