home
Thunderstorms with loud rain crashing against my broad window, a green pasture with four legged friends, a wooden shack shaking from voices, me and green friends sitting ever so still on a Sunday evening, the food covered sheets of a bedside once slept by another, the floor of my bathroom with damp hair and my cats even damper nose, sat on an uncomfortable chair in room nine watching animals in human form, a cafe in a foreign land where my tongue cannot carry so much strength, gazing at something so beyond I could never reach in despite my deepest desire to do so.
And though I have never done so, I long to live in the arms of someone who does not see me as inferior or rudely unusual, to belong to a being so soft and calm that my unequivocal nervousness becomes a shade of the past, they would be that rich shade of green that reminded you of tall guarded libraries, the would have as much knowledge and rich splendid as those books on their walls, and I would not need anything more, I would not need a house to feel at home.
