i remember making you sleep alone in my bed.
now, i imagine each dream you had to be terrible,
echoing with our laughter as an afterthought
against the hollow push and pull of all you held inside,
storing it near the sinking feeling that you would never be home,
home as in that feeling i experience when i’m entranced
or home as in that place you experience when you’re comfortable
i wish i could explain to you the feelings i could never show you
because they never belonged to you, and that somewhere
a sentence could make the ecstasy compact.