Tonight, home is secure between split ends. A light sleeper caught in a dense gaze. A cultivated beard and a wild lip. A marshmallow for cheek. A playground for the finger that knows its way around. Tonight, home is a chocolate back breathing in the shadow of a smoldering pencil and a still hand. A shiny nose bridge romancing the wash from a non-accidental oil spill. A black Fastrack with a silver dial caught in a golden moment. Tonight, home is a favorite left cheek sunk into the right half of a double bed. An unanswered call to the Horrorwoods under the pillow. A caramel neck and a cozy chest for a fairy’s nest. The fairy is a steaming biscuit of a woman quivering on the edge of collapse next to her cup of tea—hot and heaving—under the final rescue of sleep. Tonight, home is a tanned elbow and a big bronze spoon. A folded arm and an open mouth. Salted almonds and sweet nibbling. Yawning thought and a blessed trance. Tonight, home is holding the glowing papaya of a face and pecking through its perimeter, alert to a heartbeat—louder than the whistling nasal corridors—alive like a temple bell. 

But otherwise, home is Americano in tall cups at corner seats in coffee shops—preferably, notably, back against the wall—and a cinnamon bun straightened out on the cinnamon roll of a yoga mat at the center of a freshly sunned roof. Otherwise, home is utter private breaths. Otherwise, home is not offroading into his garden with a spade through his earth and planting roses on fresh acid, looking past the thorns at the petals feeding on rain.

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