A fairytale this thing called home: a shrine
they keep that you’ve outgrown. They lure you back,
a feast, homemade, with sugar cookies, wine,
board games replayed to your childhood soundtrack.
You learn it from the TV shows. Details,
menus unique; the love’s transposed. Boyfriends
all have it, normalcy; you trace the braille
of love you’ll never see. It’s not pretend.
A world of houses where you long to stay. Offhand “I love yous,” hugs, affectionate
displays. All seems so simple, words they say,
your lack, in language easy, eloquent.
This tale, your favorite, unreal, unknown:
a holiday where you want to go home.
