Everyone dreams of something,

or someone to come home to

that means anything at all

in this plastic and material life.

 

We fall apart

a shaving of dignity at a time

and we become so thin and barren

that only another so broken could love us.

 

Our best friends are the worst critics

knowing that we are capable of more,

fists red from punching snowbanks on

hour-long walks home through the St. John’s

streets that are empty and decrepit.

 

They demand what we could never give,

or can only show in glimpses,

potential is a tricky game and it drowns more than it saves.

 

I opened the door and wished you would

walk out of the old room

sleepy-eyed and confused

and I could tell you that it was okay

and I was home,

but I would never be home again.