Curling.

The incense smoke curls up around the stacks of books and I feel at home.
The way I did when I was 13 and I would leave the back window open so boys could come up and say hi in the night.  Before the pinching and bruises adorned my forearms….and even after.
The way I did when I was 19 and lost love.  Passionate, intense love.  And I learned how to fuck without feelings.
The way I did when I was 23 and optimistic.  Life laid ahead of me like a freshly paved road and the bumps were too far ahead for me to see.

I ponder when home will lead to anguish or shame.
When the incense cones I carry with me from house to house no longer comfort me in the night, because loneliness spreads faster than the scented smoke.
Flickering light feeds my needs, indulges in my lust, calms the hunger pains.
And I wait.  Patiently.
Til my psyche catches up with me.
Only then do I really know where home is.

Home is this space in my mind where I am constantly curling up into a ball.
The rain beats down.
I sleep away the depression.
I wait for love to come throw pebbles at my window.
But it never comes.
And when I awake from my slumber I light the candles.
I burn the incense.
I let simplicity dictate the insanity.
And I wait for the day to start over.

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