home

returning feels like an apology
it is written in the blue, hazy horizon
lines, it is written in cold mornings
on the frost that collects like dust on
the windows, i think i should write more,
but i never do, i have skeletons
here i never disposed of
i worry that there is only pain
and nothing to come of it, i worry
that i am trying to talk of healing while
still shuffling forward on a cliff face
in my dreams, or nightmares
i never learnt the difference, really
i’m fifteen, i’m twenty-three, i’m eleven
tangled in time, webbing on my skin
i am writing apologies to a city
my skeletons still haunt
what is palpable except fear
what is moving on except looking at the sky
and yearning for how it looked elsewhere.