You don’t take me home.

I’m laying next to you

feeling the warmth you try to exhume

so profusely

And I swear,

 

right here, I gave it this:

 

The child who stares at the water

(A Bronte in the making)

Roses,

and splashed toes and

he was one of those

who kissed my hand, my forehead

the bridge in between my eyes

my nose.

my lips…

The taste

The sand in between my toes

( Its comforter never reaches to cover them)

The leafiness, the vacant upwards

A deep blue taking upon a scarlet amber:

The stories the sun sends from the glory of its mouth

.

.

.

I (    ) him … them…

-

^a thrift store to the air gods

 

But you, Music, changes the sheets of this bed.

It doesn’t take me home.

Latterly constructing a novelty with

bricks of minute bracked crystals and

A teepee of the clouds that wade in the vacancy

A structure of air laced library books

 

and I’m alone.

 

...

and no one knows.

 

Yet you lie next to me offering

the warmth of as is if you wish to walk me home

from a late date

Leaving a kiss on my forehead

Here:______

You don’t take me home

It is home.

And you cuddle me up

in this burring  heat

Hoping that I see:

With you, alone and away

Is

Never

alone. and. away.