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Homeless

The thing about making someone your home is when they decide you take up too much space. You leave too much gray on the walls. They stop thinking your watercolor emotions are beautiful and your skin no longer feels like love to them. And suddenly they show you the door and you don’t know where to go because they were it.

No matter how tightly you can wrap your arms around yourself, it will still never feel like them. No matter how much you try to keep your colors from the walls, it will never look like them. And no matter how many times you repeat your feelings into the empty pillow beside yours, it will never resound back like them.

Your bed became mine. Your smile became mine. Your hands and your lips and your skin. I can reclaim what I gave up for you to be mine, but when my smile, my hands, my lips, and my skin heal – they will scar. I will look like you until I mesh myself with another and grow to their shape. Then that risk will be ominously present and maybe I won’t hold them the same way. Maybe I won’t kiss or laugh or look at them the same way.

Then I will think, I’ve lost a home once, I can do it again – this time with less loss.

And maybe I will never love the same.

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