Where Broken Hearts Might Have Gone To
When you start making someone your home,
you are in big trouble.
I know people who found a resting place
inside a lover’s eyes,
a lover’s hand,
a lover’s mouth,
and after a while,
they’ve all gone helplessly searching
for the home that has left them.
Some wander to churches,
begging Jesus, Buddha, Allah,
and all the other gods the world has ever named—
all the gods they never believed to be true—
to bring back what has been lost for good.
They bargain with the heavens,
desperately trying to get
a single miracle in exchange for
a collection of unanswered prayers.
Some keep going back to the place
where their lover last left them.
They make airplanes out of love letters,
just to watch them go far
before they crash
or get overthrown.
Some hide under heaps of photographs,
some hide over writing desks.
Some hide so well I bet nobody can find them anymore,
not even themselves.
When my home left,
I made love
to all the monsters inside my head.
And so the next time someone
looked at me
and touched me
and told me
“I love you, welcome home”
I only said “thank you,
but I have to go.”