home was what i never called my own,
home was the road i didn't dare to drive on.
commitments became a threat,
sacrifices a curse,
i molded myself,
and quenched my thirst with the boycott of love.
but your fingers dripped promises,
so did your heart when i first heard it, a voice so warm i didn't need the fire,
while you embraced the winter cold and its wicked tricks.
i wished i'd known what i was stumbling into,
when the rain knocked me through your door.
but the howling of the wind couldn't have put off your voice that night,
neither was the efficiency of the served tea to keep me rested.
open, i was becoming.
like the doors you open to the people passing by.
ache, i was experiencing.
when your scent left residues on my needs.
but i found myself coming back,
found myself needing and regretting and objecting,
to that realization of the ache in my chest,
when i drove back to where it bloomed,
and fell in love with you all over again,
and with the idea of a home and a family,
all that i have avoided,
all the essentials to remain a whole.
i could never forget the rain falling down my cheeks that night when you opened the door,
neither the tears on your face that imitated the same when i came back stomping through the same floor.
i could never forget the words you sighed in the damp air as we combined,
neither the atmosphere when i said it back.
—a tribute to 'born in ice' by nora roberts. that book gave me all the feels—
