I stare at these vacant walls,
And remember all the horrible memories
Stained in my memory and etched deeply in my heart.
No, this is not home.
My fingertips trace the numbers on the door.
I stare at the grass, now longer and uneven.
The white picket fence is now worn and tired
From trying to keep in all the secrets
Of what really happened here.
No, this is not home.
But your arms pull me close to you,
And I can hear your steady heartbeat,
I close my eyes and breathe in
The familiar smell of vanilla and mint.
You lift my chin with your fingertips
And my eyes meet the bright azure of yours.
A smile paints your face as you tuck
A rebellious brown lock behind my ear.
My eyes flutter close as you lean in,
And your gentle lips meet mine.
And I know,
This is home.
YOU ARE READING
The Chaos
PoetryWelcome to the chaos of my mind. A collection of original poems by me. "A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language." -W.H. Auden "That was her gift, she filled you with words you didn't k...
