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© Shlagha Borah

Abstract

2 Minutes   6.7K    8


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You made homes out of people,

And now you're here, homeless.

 

They say home is the place where your heart is, 

So where do I go while you're digging yours

and I'm still finding mine?

 

Home is all about finding a friend in your roommate 

and not missing your mother's chicken curry beyond some regular wailing,

And in the city where they say you can catch dreams,

The clock ticks louder with every second minute 

after the sky turns from prussian blue to black to the orange 

One sees at dawn after a crazy night,

And I, hopelessly romanticizing poetry out of the thinnest of air,

Lay upside down, staring at the two inch gap between the unwashed curtains

Of the window above the table that Ma would've told a hundred and one times to tidy.

But this isn't home and Ma isn't here

And so the table and the bed

and the way from the table to the bed

Remains messy, the way she dislikes,

The way it shouldn't be, but is.

 

Rain in the corridors make me drop a tear

In the most unlikely of places I've ever been to,

Places within me I procrastinated to wander to,

And someone had rightly said something 

about making yourself feel at home,

But tell me if you find it,

where is home?

 

I've been missing and healing 

And humming and nodding,

Talking walks from the front gates

to the back lawn, to the café

To the exhibition hall, 

To find nothing close to home.

But, one day, in a well-ventilated room 

in the midst of twenty something people,

With Rain outside and bliss inside,

The skin on my arms felt it,

The soothing trauma of goosebumps,

And now I knew, to warriors

What felt like coming home.

 

Home is where the heart is,

And I hope mine keeps beating here.

Home unknown city people

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