Many Houses

 

You spend your nights in the company of melancholy

playing the music just loud enough to convince your thoughts

to not drift too far away,

drifting your fingers through the flames of a burning candle

just to make sure you can feel anything at all.

You tell yourself you’re happy and not something else,

but happiness isn’t a constant state of being.

It’s an emotion, that comes and goes as fast as

the gas in the car you drive for miles and miles

searching for somewhere, for something, that

makes you feel like you belong.

But home is not always a house, sometimes home

is many houses.

And sometimes home is the many people inside

the houses, or one person and no house at all.

Or maybe it’s just you.

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