It is a tiny island,
surrounded by the ocean of urbanization.
The only place dad could go to smoke a cigarette,
and let off some steam through his raspy lungs.
A blissful sanctuary for the crows to perch and peck
the last few pieces of soggy bread crumbs
left from a sandwich,
and letting their burnt black feathers
absorb the sun like a sponge.
A place where the eye of a
series of storms of arguments
soak through the muted windows,
with the sharp silence that follows after.
It was a haven to sit in the rusty
sunk- in lawn chair,
watching the flow of fog
shape itself in the crisp air
around the moonlight,
listening to the crickets crescendos.
This porch was a speck of dust,
compared to the world.

This was my safe place,

and at this specific moment,

it felt as though the world
wasn't completely falling apart.