I put my things in you, little dependencies, prayers and things I’ve been promised.
Trust, honesty, a shoulder to rest my head upon.
I’ve left behind a dozen places, a hundred walls, a bed I knew from head to foot;
home became something living in you.
I collected not even memorabilia, everywhere you took me was a stamp on the life you held,
and nothing else was necessary.
There was once when the turnstile rounded,
When the familiar surface of everything vanished,
seized by someone else.
This thing was brief, fleeting,
but purgatory is forever.
Persistence brought you back to me, arguments with the voice in the phone.
I let myself become a home, a suit case of every memory.
Something that belongs.