What do you come home to?
Besides these cold linoleum floors.
That you tread every night
When sleep fails you yet again.
Too consumed with thoughts of spending extra hours in that
Frigid
Artificially lighted office.
To earn more money
To use on things you’ll never need.
These stone countertops have never seen the love of a warm home-cooked meal.
Only the residue left on chopsticks
From last night's takeout.
Metal bookshelves line the walls.
Piled high with books you used to read religiously.
And some that will never feel the warmth
of your once curious hands.
A spring bed in the corner.
Squeaky
And dipped in on one side.
Covered by plain white sheets.
On the grey slate walls resides
One small picture frame.
Empty, and blank.
Reserved for that trip across the ocean you never got to take.
That you swear you will take.
One day.
One day.
But for now,
Destined to wander this series of boxed-in areas
that hardly deserve the title of a “room."
You hope for more.
You work for more.
More materialist collateral.
To support a family you’ll never have.
So many days. That turn into months. That turn into years.
And you’re surprised when time doesn’t stand still for you.
Your heart has fallen in on its self.
Your lips can no longer work alongside your tongue to form words.
Only a brain.
A bystander, Simply observing life.
Watching it all pass by,
through those opaque faded circles in the middle of your face,
that were once meant to be looked back at.
What do you come home to?