Home

I had a dream last night.
You were in it.
We walked though the desperate streets of a dying city.
The roads were paved with despair and broken glass.
And the smell of massacre and murder lingered on the thick air.
Once clean and fresh.
The taste of dried up hopes, danced in my mouth like a fancy ballet.
And the landscape, in marry and desperate drought.
Fought to live, but relished in death.

In the light of things to come you told me to take your hand.
To hold on for my life…
(If life indeed was what I sought)
"But how can I?"
I questioned as the sky chipped away into blackness.
The small blue and white pieces fell to the ground, shimmering like undiscovered diamonds.
We gathered them up.
(In our pockets and palms of our hands)
And pieced them together into crowns and jewels.

"How can I?"
I asked again, as you adorned me in broken sky.
"If the world is lost and dying? How can I?"
You said little more.
Not so much more than a word.
"Love." It echoed though the desolate place.
Like a foreign body, solely of its own existence.
Not belonging in such a place. But being ever the same.

There was a brief second.
In the dream before I fully woke.
When your lips and mine had met.
Under the crumbling sky, as the city burned
(With bright and strange flames)
When I understood what your words truly meant.
And the dying city, in the abandoned world.
Which threatened to consume us both.
Was no longer a source of constant fear.
But home.
Because you loved me, for that one moment.
I was home.