home clung to me like loose clothes
and hung in clouds that followed
me up the stairs and hovered
over my bed like mercurial sighs
while I melted into the night.

home was a shortness of breath
and a puddle of guilt–
stale corn flakes and spilled milk.
it was outstretched arms grasping rope
to swing away to the moon.

I let the clouds tread lightly
till they lost weight as I
wrung them dry and watched them curl
up into leaves that I steeped
in my evening cup of tea.

I sipped the tea slowly, in
order to not scorch the tongue,
and added two sugars for effect.
it’s the only way in which
the thought of home
              warmed me up inside.