He as the Sea

I'm at home, in my room. The soft glow from my lamp, my dog curled close. But I'm not really sure what home is. I've searched for it, unpacked my things long enough for them to find their space, but never long enough to gather dust because soon, I've decided, I'll be gone again.

When nowhere feels comfortable, it's easy to keep moving along. I thought I wanted safety, but every time it brushed against my skin, letting me know it could exist, I backed it into a corner and said, "I'll be leaving soon."

I'm not sure how I ended up here. This place, seaside. How odd that the water makes me feel at ease, but every time I wade out past the shore, I let it spit me back again.

Because maybe, if I really tried, I would sink.

This place - where I unpack and repack the same suitcase.

This place - with frames on the walls, but no photographs.

This place - was never home, and never will be without you here, too.