Home is not my filthy apartment,
Food rotting in the sink,
Cupboads empty of dishes.
Home is not my parent's house,
Full of desperate memories of wanting out,
The tv blasting all day long.
Home is not my Frankenstein car,
Made of old broken parts
Pasted together with rust and rubber.
Home is not my job,
With its ancient mac
And crappy word processing.
Home is not the university
Where I avoid old enemies
By taking the long way.

Home is the scent of your skin
When my face is buried in your chest
Your weathered hands caressing my back.
Home is my sunny bed you've destroyed
In your thrashing sleep on too-hot nights,
Your warm hands on my hip
And tangled in my hair.

Home is my twelve-hour-Wedneday-work finished
With the softness of your lips.

06/22/2005

Posted on 06/23/2005
Copyright © 2025 Madeline Pestolesi