An Unaddressed Letter Sits at the Back of my Throat

They lied to us. 

The greatest tragedy isn’t the absence of love, 

it’s not having anyone to write to.

Pages after pages after pages of words

and whom do I address them to today?

Home ceases to be home when

you leave of your own accord.

I cease to be when I leave.

People aren’t written in different languages,

they’re just written in different directions.

When you really think about it

there’s not much of a difference 

between people and love.

I go out, I meet new faces

I talk, I laugh, I lose

no pieces of me.

I lose keys.

I lose my keys to different hands.

Here’s the key to my softness 

Will you keep it safe for me, love?

Will you stay so that I may 

make my way back to you?

Back to home.

Home.

There’s a smudged address written 

upside down on my wrist and 

no matter how much I bend my arm

I can’t read it. 

Winter’s still far away

but I’m already cold

and the warmth of a light isn’t enough.

I take a pen and dip it in the ink 

and burn down the house.

I take a pen and burn down the house

but the house burns me back.

What are you looking for?