The laughter came easy
the passion, easier yet
and the day was spent
as Sundays once were
in that tiny old house on Third Street –
no phone or TV, mismatched furniture
and a fridge nearly empty with only
leftover macaroni and cheese
Coca-Cola, and a large
bottle of ketchup –
yet it was home.

And it felt like home
to be in your arms,
to smell you, touch you
kiss you,
to be filled by you.
I reveled in the moment,
taking all that I could
from you
knowing you would
leave once more for
your new tiny, old house.

There is no “and” in the
address books of my friends
next to my name now,
just the number of a house
we once shared –
large, with matching furniture,
TVs and phones in every room,
two refrigerators overfilled
with food and drink and other
desires of the palate –
it will never be home again,
except for the random Sunday
when you find your way back
for a few stolen hours.

The hopeless romantic that I am,
the daft poet who dreams in words,
will continue to cling to the hope
of a homecoming that will
never occur.
I will take what you are willing
to give, holding those moments
close to my piecemeal heart
while I try to make a whole
out of such a small part of you.
So much richness and so much poverty.
All I want is to go home
to you.