If home is where the heart is then my heart has many homes
A piece is left in the mountains of Virginia
While a portion is also left there with the girl who gave me a night of firsts
A chunk of my heart lies in Tennessee where the roots of music run deep and Nashville feels like a very bone in my body
There are places I have never been that my heart already finds comfort in
There are people I have yet to meet in person that a portion of my soul belongs to
A huge chunk of my heart is in California where the sun shines bright and my best friend's smile shines even brighter
A fragment of my heart belongs to Chicago where I gave an even bigger fragment to the most beautiful girl in my life when I first came to know her and her definition of home
There are many places where my heart resides
I am searching for the person who will come into my life and make anywhere I go with them feel like home
For my heart will be in their hands and they will be the place in which I call home

No breeze stirs
so the heat endures
in this town
where loneliness found
a home in me

What I know
is not so
in this town
where love has bound
me to be

Boston, land of the Big Dig,
home of tight knit groups who call each other family with no blood relation.
Winter teaches you how to shovel your car out of snow banks with red raw hands and a pizza box. Teaches you balance as you slip and skid your way down city sidewalks laced with ice, black like onyx.
Girls with ******* and short dresses shiver on the T, their puffy white breaths begging for warmth while their counterparts stand snuggled in down jackets zipped up to their nose. Spring brings rain and the snow becomes muddy slush splashing against your car that can never really be clean. But then the flowers come and you forget about the cold as the humidity sinks in like a fat man into his favorite recliner.
The swamp is ever noticeable in Summer as everyone walks in knee high mud, trudging slowly to the Boston Pops.
Fall is perfect. Crisp colors and the sweet smell of apples and pumpkins last for months as cheeks turn rosy and hands find safe harbor in pockets.  
Boston land of men and women not boys and girls
Home of seasons at spectrums end and the only place that will always be home.

I still have the occasional dream,
Of things I can no longer do,
People I can no longer see.
I've cut them off from my thoughts so they have no where else to go but my subconscious. Subdued, taped up and packed in boxes and old drawers, the pieces purposely misplaced and pictures burnt and/or torn, but they're still there. My little hell that still burns behind my eyes, that takes residence in my skull, that I try my best to forget about. I try to distract myself, avert attention, but honestly things still thrive in there. Alive and well, my hell has full attendance

with a couple words like Je T'aime I wasn't really
impressed with the way your tongue glided over
your lower lip or the way your eyes shot up like
fireworks on the Fourth of July, which reminded
me of the last time I met someone like you right by
the Colosseum: was I meant to be intertwined with a
historic love or have my heart coded with places I
wouldn't forget such as your arms during the morning
light when we are hidden under the sheets, hoping your
mother wouldn't come in her satin pink robe and sharp
tongue because she said she was too young to be a grandmother
(she said she loved the color of my eyes, brown like mine
were too rare to find) and for a moment, I believed her when she
said I should pack up my bags and find another city to fall in
love with because you'd drag me under the ground and make me
a ruin just the way your father did to her. It was hard to believe
the words springing from her blood, but I left a photograph of myself
in your pocket and ran to where my legs took me. In a matter of months, when I heard a couple of words like Te Amo, I knew it was to start again.

I look back on these pictures
Only a memory
That reveals the true feelings captured inside of a camera lens
Reflecting places, people, and things
Where I've gone, What I've seen, Who I've been with
When I see those pictures,
my wistful memory tells me how I was so happy
Now I just sit here trying to create better, and happier memories
But it doesn't seem to work anymore
I try too hard and think too much
Just for a memory
To be a bust
All I do is
Hope that one day
Things will lighten up and be true
So I can look at more pictures again
And realize those feelings never left after all

What is the full depth of my inner soul?
How far does it fall short of infinity,
given the known limits of my being human?
Can all of the crevices, cracks, fissures,
scissures and abyss of the empty places
in my soul be filled when I desire Your Presence
to consume every void of my existence?
While complaining, gossiping, and rage
can grieve Your Holy Spirit, I’m only posing
these questions… to expand my understanding.
I’m thankful that You will never run out
of forgiveness, patience, love and grace.
Walking blind in the carnality of the flesh
will keep me as a pathetic, miserable Christian.
As one of Your sons, I’ve embraced Your principles
while striving towards my spiritual maturity.
On many occasions, I’ve tasted small portions
of Your eternal Peace, Joy and Righteousness.
Continue to gently lead me by Your Holy Spirit,
so that the empty places… have no sway over me.
.
.
.
Author Notes:

Loosely based on:
Eph 3:16-19, 4:30-31; 1 Thes 5:19; John 14:23;
Rom 8:8-14; Deu 10:13

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2014, All rights reserved.

I often forget moments
and people
and things
the problem is
I never forget feelings
I'm left with them
octo-tangled
untethered
to memory.