I’ve never wanted to feel so much at home:
I held your hand in my favourite time of year.
Maybe you could have loved me if we had stayed searching that night,
if we had let the words lack between us, keeping their years.
But it’s me who stays
stuck in inadequate thoughts of what I could have been
to hold your hand in the summer.
Now you’re gone from me,
And I feel the lack of your laugh,
The lack of the music you make beside me.
I wanted to figure the physics you explained to me,
to be smart enough to know you as I felt you meant to me.
I was never the person you craved, but
you’re home to me,
the promise I’ve been led to believe in.
You’re music to me.
The small life moving on in roads we take to stay.
I’m the one you led to the knowledge of leaving,
you’re the memory that keeps me feeling I can stay.
I hold your hand in my favourite time of year.
It’s cold now and I feel you in country roads,
covered in snow.
We change our comforts for routine and
my reflective tendencies come to mind.
In the light we had on the weekend, the sunshine we didn’t notice was ours in the rain.
You didn’t notice, but when you sang about the age of life, how it’s older than the trees,
I was making you home to me.
The you I fell with was the you I met every time;
luminous and clear, the moments I got to know you alone
became the memories I keep to have you walk these country roads with me.
I have never felt so much myself,
so much at home I
hold your hand in my favourite time of year.
27 January 2019