Homeless Where The Heart Is

If life were like a river, roiling but flowing
(And very well, it may be)
maybe things would be a lot simpler.
The ambivalence of my words and actions would end.
Consistent indeed would be my changes.
The dreamer in me is strong though, and truth –
Truth is always gray, and always black and white,
but only when convenient.
I imagine the whiteness of walls being splattered
with paint and words of the things we fear to say
since our hearts are so fragile, afraid of judgment.
I imagine, nonetheless. For what are we if not lost,
wandering through our romanticism
as we navigate through our realities,
catching breaths and feeling each others beating hearts?
I know full well how quickly a beat can break my chest,
reminding me I’m not alone in here, that I can’t escape you.
I prefer it this way, strange as it were. Without you,
my walls are still blank and I’ve only reds with which to paint.
The walls say as little as I have, and have heard everything.
I realize now they were never mine, and always yours.
The words.
The walls.
Most of all, the paint, and how it still lies in the bucket.


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