Silence is not apology enough for a drenched tongue,
For windswept breath and rattled frame.
Home is more tinder stoking fires,
Than tender embrace.
There are branches in you unfit for swinging,
Bottles collecting like retribution.
Stairs and stars and holes in walls,
Calling home is puzzle, and pattern,
And missing pieces.
I keep broken things like mementos and trinkets,
An ode to those I am not yet able to fix.
I keep plastic coins like a fixture in time;
You can tap out when you’re ready.
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Much love and many books,