her milk is him

her eyes are full of good tidings,
washing my body with lavender soap cake,
all the dirt crumbs of a hard life drained
into a circle of holes that carry away carings,
to places where their squeaking can’t be heard

her hands, pillows for a head so sorrow-weighty,
her body, her hips, a bed upon to rest,
and he wonders,
how did he exist before she become his nest,
her hair of grass, now, a coverlet for twigs and strings,
when then he laid his body down for disturbed sleep

her milk is him, a restorative that refreshes his content,
how did, once upon a time, he let existence subtract
his time on earth without any relativity, time unrecognizable,
he was in no one place, pathless, subsidizing nothing,
unable to distinguish tween the straight and the curved

her milk in him, whitens his soul, she calls out,
“you are my shepherd, my king, my David,
my white marble sculpture of our current existence,
when you drink the white of me, it is I who is fulfilled,
when you write of me, your milk is me”

A long way to go
Down a road, I don't know
Will I do it alone
Or with a purpose

My feet are raw
From the path to finding myself
I had hoped to meet you there
You might have gotten lost finding yourself

I’ve never had a home but I’ve always wanted one.
I’ve spent a lot of time trying to understand what that word means.

Some say you carry your home within your heart
Others say your soul  knows where home is and it’s beyond this earlthy realm.
And if you feel like an alien here on earth chances are that resonates with you.

I’ve always searched for home in my family, my friends, lovers.
Nothing ever felt quite right.
Never gave me that feeling of content or made my heart feel whole.
Nothing ever made me lose that urge I would feel in the center of my body to stop searching.

Not until I found you.
You smelled like home, you tasted like home, you felt like home.
I’ve never had a home, but I don’t need one anymore

You make anything feel like home to me.