Home is docile, eyes closed, napping.
Unalarmed by movement, rustles in a jungle of warmth and pillows. Pillows and peace. A familiar sound. A safe sound.
But I do not stir.
Home is the white noise as I lay there, body still. Bones fatigued, mind tired. A form disembodied from the soul. I could leave and never return.
But I do not fear.
Home is the silent sizzle and steam from the kitchen. Of material and immaterial needs met. Of things wanted and things taken for granted.
But I do not hunger.
Home is the existence of being there, vulnerable, without fear of judgment. A heart left unguarded on the hearth. Unpressured to awake from my dreams. To dream widely. To dream openly.
But dream on, I do.
Home is written in another world, a planet away. It is the shadow lingering ‘neath eyelids in the dark beyond. A reminder of the better things there had been. And better things to be.
So I do not despair.
Commentary: written while napping on my parents living room, completed during solo business flight travels (notably, the last verse)