Home is docile, eyes closed, napping.
Unalarmed by movement,
of rustles in a jungle of warmth and pillows.
Pillows and peace.
A familiar sound mumurs.
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.
It 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.
and dream on, I do.
Home is reminiscence when in another world, a planet away.
It is the shadow lingering ‘neath eyelids in the dark beyond.
Home is a reminder of the better things there had been.
And the 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)