Little TalksMature

We call them
Little Talks
even though
they’re never
At 9:13 pm
you can barely hear
the song
you’ve thought about
since 6:33 am
cause at that moment
it’s not
you’re focused
on the sound
of their voice
and they laugh
at this thing-
you’re thinking
of course it matters
but you’ve both
done it
but you were high
lying down
a smile on your face
you’re talking
about how much
you love
the rain,
you “miss home”,
you say,
even though
you’re not sure
whether that was home
or where home is
you say it
and you mean it
not knowing.
“it rained a lot,
like all the time-
but there were good days,
it used to get,
bright and warm-
shrouding the trees-
it was beautiful.
it was home.”
and your knees
pulled up
to your chest
and you don’t know
you can go
you know,
that you may never
at home.
you travel
where your soul tells you
and your soul tells you
you don’t have a home
that your home
is in love,
is in people
is in laughter
streaked across
the sunrise,
is in buildings
falling apart
but built back up
is in
running away,
to feel something
the pouring rain
on a bridge
older than you
and you stop yourself
from running a trail
that ends
that hasn’t been home
in three months-
Little Talks
it’s now
10:57 pm
and they’re telling you
how they need to get away
from here,
how they need
to find home
because home for them,
hasn’t been here
for years-
how they can feel safe
and open
on the road,
and you tell them
when they ask,
of course
I’ll go with you.”
because in that moment,
they’re home.
Little Talks
at 11:00 pm
in a moment
you never want
to end,
wondering why
you can’t slow down
and live
in your heartbeat
ten seconds
of bliss
and honesty
with yourself
and you go crazy
why you feel at home
in these moments,
why you feel more you
and more honest
Little Talks
that are never
your excitement
about space,
you’re falling in love
with new old things
all over again,
you miss the rain
you miss being young
not knowing anything
not worrying
about home,
but you’re eighteen
sitting in the edge
of a shattered window
over a town
you love,
and you’re more at home
than you can remember

ever being,
and you can’t remember
the last time
you could breath
so easily,
Little Talks
and you’re crying
so terrified
of the future,
of who you’ll be
who you’ll become
and what things
you could possibly do,
how different
you want to be,
you’re sure
you’re drowning
and so scared
of everything
there could be,
trying so hard
not to exist
and they tell you
you are no ghost,
you sway
with a rhythm
any other,
and you
are home
in that moment.
Little Talks
at 1:35 am
you crave
a home
a real home
a bed
so warm

and light
from the sunrise,
laying next to you
one arm
around you-
Little Talks
that are never
than the stories
you want to tell
and it’s home,
every time
and you think,
you’ll get there,
is everywhere
and you
aren’t scared
you don’t worry
you trace
every scar
and think
of when you got them
faded nail polish,
your dirty watch
that you swear
you’ll clean,
out your window
and you wonder
how much
you’ll get to do
and who
you’ll be
and you think,
that it’s okay,
and your soul
it’s home
and so
are you.

The End

1 comment about this poem Feed