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Image from the Here Not Home series - silhouette walking along a large rock

Home isn't here. 


It used to stretch through the canyons of the golden hills.

Last I looked, those rivers ran a new course.


I catch glimmers of it in the creases of my fathers eyes,

but this couldn’t be home forever.


I thought I left it in a safe place, 

wound it up tight with school paste and thread. 

But time ages thread, and threads become loose, and loose threads unravel. 

I trailed that thread across state lines,

driving through the patchwork of what I knew and what I wanted to know. 

But home wasn’t in the miles that I drove. 

I briefly found it in the smooth skin at the back of your knee,

while slipping into the sweet comfort of a familiar bed. 

But my dreams grew hazy and I lost sight of the edge.


I’m still here. Not home. 

But if they say home is made by love and not walls,

then my search has been made in vain.

For walls of my heart are strewn across continents and time. 


I’ll never be home.


Does this set me free? 


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