my suitcase lay in
the crevice of my walls,
i fought the urge
to open it,
for the two-month
adventure
i had been riding
would float like dust
between my hands.
home didn't feel like
the breath of comfort
it should have.
with opening
that familiar door
came the goodbyes,
the sorrow,
and the treacherous
fear of new beginnings.
i sat up in my room,
pondering all
i had become.
atop my shelf,
amongst the books
and trinkets
lay a graveyard
of dead plants,
i must have forgotten
about them
pre my departure.
i gazed at the crisp leaves,
brown and ghostly,
their apparations
clawing for release,
i looked to them
and laughed.
raise a glass to all the dead things i left behind.
YOU ARE READING
potency
Poetrycan you hear them? every step aching toward us? : the here and now poems
