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The Waste Belongs at Home
When I've gotten away from nowhere and
nowhere I remain, I hear a call from home in my
absence - the hardwood void, the dust that
tangles with the fur of the cat in a pointless
ring that likes to wind my toes together. There,
I wish I would have stayed, in moments to refrain,
reflect and determine why I left at all again. When
I'm forced to leave and journey on towards none,
I like to hope that someone found their way inside;
waiting on me to arrive and surprise me with
their heart in hand and a knife in the other. They'd
confess as they'd bled on to my sheets and they're
sorry they'd come ahead of time, but there wasn't
moments left for waiting. They'd lend it, beating,
and expect it to be cared for. I'd try, for a while,
until my footing's lost and it's thrown away, to bounce,
or break, against a wall that wasn't there yesterday.
