Hollow,
A hole is being burrowed into my chest,
The draft keeps coming through,
There is no light here,
Just a vacuum,
This growing question,
Of what it would be like,
To recieve the gifts of parents,
To be able to call some place home,
Even a house,
that is not my own,
Is this a silent grief?
Of never belonging?
I have nowhere to go,
No where to be,
I walk,
Watching how the moon lights the night streets,
and how hands curve into each other,
I walk alone,
Wondering wny sometimes there are tears in my ducts,
Other times why I am silenced at the throat,
It is strange yet liberating,
To not be owned by noone,
The unknown my gatekeeper,
In my house,
There is just me,
My spirit, my future, my prayers,
my dimmed lit house,
with radiators blasting,
With the smell of cumin, ginger and garlic in the air,
My persian rugs,
And green littered everywhere,
Chai passed round the hands of my visitors,
Time, a gift love cannot compete with,
My neighbors must be able to taste my tears,
For the river I curate some days,
My weeping becomes a river song,
spoken to the angels to give me a place in heaven
Most nights you can hear the thumps of my steps,
As I dance away my pain,
Shaking the trauma right out of this dying body,
I lost my family several times,
Once to death, many to abuse,
Once to a poet, the other to the my whole heart : the reason to my existence,
Then to the hearts that made me grow,
and then to marraige,
I am forever homeless,
The only home that I own is within me