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Coming home.

To a place that is made of flesh and blood and earth and sky.

A whisper in the falling night.

Woven together with scar tissue and starlight

Dotted with windows that look out onto horizons that I don't recognize.

Some into the future, and others into the past.

A home that has a door that often will not open.

And when it does it is usually just a crack.

I sit on the porch humming lullabies that might soothe a growling beast.

Most nights I sleep in the yard, hoping it will still be there when I awake.

I spend my days dreaming of the inside of that house,

Wishing to touch every corner of every dark room.

Wanting to fill it with light and music.

But when I reach the front steps I know that it is not time.

I would spend a thousand years planting flowers along the foundation of this place.

Hoping that there will come a day when all of those colors and all of that life can explain what I cannot.

And on the nights that this home disappears into the depths of an already dark night…

I will lie amongst the flowers in the quiet stillness and know that my heart is at home there too.

© Elizabeth McLaughlin | November 1, 2015


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