I always thought the idea of finding home in a person was a childish whim,
Because how could I expect one person to hold-
The trenches of baggage I came with.
The idea that one body could keep within itself
The source of my comfort, was so strange to me.
How could one person alone have the ability-
To reel me back in when I run too far from safety,
To hold my hands when I can’t help but-
Close them into tight fists to fight the dark,
Nails digging into palms, trying to keep the loud in.
How could someone alone be nimble-fingered enough-
To let me skip down the road and lose my way,
To always have a fire lit in the furnace,
A hot drink waiting, a cushion and an embrace.
How could one person become the centre of my world,
How could they trace my skin and find the bumps,
And watch me as I pieced myself back to one.
How could they put my anxieties away,
Lock them up in boxes, hidden in the back of closets.
It’s ludicrous, all the details and elements
That come with home and it’s walls;
But then, of course, I met you.
You weren’t home right away, of course not,
That would be too Jane Austen, too easy.
But I found in you a lot of land,
And enough strength to build upon,
Empty, but not barren; a promising field,
That rain blesses and sunshine bleeds on.
I found you standing, with your hands in-
your pockets, smiling at me verily, so welcoming.
Because I needed a home, and so did you,
And so we lay out the blueprints to see,
To find our quiet corners, to open new doors,
To build a home, a place to simply be,
And hold each other until the last of the fire burns out.