One Hundred and Seventy One

I've been having this dream lately.

After a few years of giving up on all of it, all of the work and writing and crowds. After giving in, and letting loose, I realize I'm lost. So lost, too lost in myself, in my ambition and drive, in the mess of these people, in the flashes of reviews and waves of criticism, it's too much.
It's too much and I lose myself.
I lose myself, still so young, with something I thought I was willing to give.
But it isn't a life I need to live. Not really.
I lose myself and come back
'back'
and you don't meet me at the airport.

But you invite me to your place, with the same smile, with a familiar tea in a familiar mug, and we sit and smile and talk of the stars and diaries and success. And when I get up to leave, you hug me, so quickly, so briefly, the briefest of holds, and turn away in pain. I realize I should say something, but I don't. Instead I take my hat and tip it, shrug on my coat.
And then
I say your name, softly. I don't mean for it to be a whisper but it is, and you turn back around and kiss me. You inhale and fall towards me, close your eyes and kiss me, your arms on my shoulders and fingers on my neck, I can only drop my bag and hold you close, with a fierce and desperate loneliness and confidence. It's familiar, and right.

Thank you for finding me you say
and I can't shake the need to say it back to you.


You know

I never meant to store a feeling of home in you.
But I think I have.