this body, right here

is it possible to recognize

something you've never known?

i keep searching;

lost and ambling –

for a place?

a house, a city, a street.

somewhere i can settle

to feel the wind and breathe.

but i've ran down all horizons,

and all i've found were clouded skies.

crowded pavements and cluttered bodies

that drowned even my loudest cries.

maybe a person, then.

with kind eyes and warm embraces,

whose scent i can name:

cinnamon, vanilla. love, joy.

still, i fear being seen,

and i've never wanted to be held.

down, the list of strangers,

down, the smoke clouding my nose.

but i know it's there.

it must be – it has to be.

the yearning in my chest

is much too heavy for fiction.

so i lie in bed and

talk to myself

until the light casts

shadows on gravel.

here, i say, my hand on my throat,

your home is your body,

the pounding of your heart,

the rush of your breath.

here, i whisper, fists trembling,

your home is your sadness,

the fall of tears

when no one is around.

here, i scream, arms spread open,

your home is you,

and all that you are,

and the happiness that you'll feel again.

here, here, here.

because for all of my searching,

i've never once tried

to look into myself

for shelter and warmth,

for kindness and peace.

my desertion has left ruins;

walls and floors crumbling.

but perhaps i can rebuild

now that i've stopped running.

and maybe the longing all along

was my heart beating:

this body,

right here,

this body,

is your home.