Coming Home.

The wooden door squeaks open,
Her haunting face shines in candlelight.
Power cuts are still common.
Cobwebs still crowd the ceilings.
The left window pane is still broken.
My high heels don’t feel at home on the shabby floor.
She welcomes me
Into that shabby alcove
Where I had left her lifetimes back.
Before I wandered
Alone amidst the cacophony
Of foreign tongues,
False loves,
High street clothing,
Plastic money and plastic smiles.
Today
I have crawled back
Grasping hands of the familiar ghosts I had abandoned.
They never abandoned me.
I look at her.
She passes me a smile,
I smile back at myself.
My high heels don’t feel home on the shabby floor.
I feel home.
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One comment on “Coming Home.

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