I want a home I can touch with my fingers
Your voice is so familiar.
It has shaped itself to my ear and made a home
as if it is the only sound I was ever meant to hear.
It is distinct and pulls at my skin, prying it up
like a crowbar beneath door jambs.
I am separated inside,
pulled apart by that familiar sound, the sound
of your voice settling somewhere deep in my chest.
Its quiet notes pluck me down to pieces
scattered everywhere, no means to regather them
or form them back into their once humanoid shape.
Just a coo and laugh with silence following
close behind. Each word is a lullaby
sung in the wrong key.
I hear you, and I know it is you.
I hear you and see your face in my mind.
I hear you and lean in to kiss lips that aren't there.
I hear you, but the words are all wrong.
Disarming lullaby voice tells me
we cannot be together, tells me
we are just friends and barely that.
Crowbar voice that is my home tells me
I am being evicted, tells me
this home is made of sound waves
and tearing emotional ties.
The wind blows through the walls
and there never was
a roof.
YOU ARE READING
Moments Belonging to No One: A National Poetry Month Chapbook
PoetryApril is National Poetry Month, and I have decided, in honor of the month, to write 30 poems for each of the 30 days. A lot happened in my life throughout this month. Mostly what I wrote about was heartache, breakups, exhaustion, and the way life mo...
