Home

It's true horror,

rebuilding your life when no one's home. 

Home?

Is it warm to you?

Can you still feel the soft, warm blanket

press against your skin,

while your mother's purfume slid down your cheek?

Do you still feel sick,

when you go to reach for the phone, 

and there's no one else on the other line?

You can't just run there

because there will be mud 

waiting for you on the other side.

Sometimes you can walk there,

in time,

in your dreams.

Like, Babysteps rather.

It takes controll to see her, 

sitting in the chair,

with her back to the TV

as you would creep through the door

and make as much noise 

as your brain could imagine.

It still hurts you, right?

To see the china

she served Thanksgiving dinner on.

You still cry at night, right?

Because she's dead.

And she's never coming back.