p o e t r y

59

The truth is I just want to go home

to breathe the same air ; like I used to

to curl up in the same sheets; like I used to

fall asleep under the same worn posters; like I used to

like I used to

what a phrase

like nothing will ever be the same

and in the brief interludes that I'm there I feel so detached

there is a faint smell of burnt incense that stained the walls

the sheets smell lonely and full of musk as if longing to be slept in again

the room is like a ghost town

simply

and

purely

a

sad reminder

of the life that used to be there

which will

never fully be the same

again

A/N

drowning in a nostalgic current