Homeless

      Off the shelf I pull a leather-bound book. A journal. It could be the love story of a generation, with all of its ardent passion.  A volume of lust, love, truth, and tragedy has become a volume forgotten...

                                                                    Forgotten to all but me.

      I measured our love with broken charcoal pencils.  The ones I used to illustrate the moments we could steal from the world. Secrets whispered in sultry voices beneath blankets of young lust.

      The deepening of a summer fling meant unspoken conversations.  A look into the crystal pool of your eyes was a glimpse into your soul. Our minds, our souls, became one.  This, the core of our connection, intensified every word, look, touch.

      You would breathe me in, and claim I smelled like home.  I mocked your romantic metaphor, though I knew, too well, what it meant.  Burying my face in pillow a where your scent lingered. Home. Reading, now, I remember home.

      In a house, on my bed, I am homeless. Lest I read this volume to recall the feel of a home. All that is left is a love story for a generation, selfishly hidden upon my shelf.  My home within a book rekindles the home within my heart.