I don't know. Home. in Poetry is the Window to the Soul...

The soft, plush pillow offers up no comfort tonight as I lay my head upon it with my eyes shut tight. I hear the soft whir of the ceiling fan above me pulsing almost in unison with my own rhythmic heartbeat.

It’s a quiet evening otherwise.

At least everywhere sans inside the confines of my NASCAR mind.

See, everything in my life hums in a motion I am accustomed to; there is a pace to the things that I do and try. The car is loyal as it runs a breath over five miles faster than the stated speed limit sign. The showerhead erupts at just the right temperature and pressure as my fingers ever so carefully, almost robotically, dial it into action. The television sparks to life at the customary volume and all so familiar sports channel in the background providing the routine that is the soundtrack to my life.

And yet all of these things are all but abstract when it comes to what defines me and my night when the moon dips low and my mind is alight.

When thoughts become a river in which I can actually delve into, swimming against the charging current of possibility – against the tide of you and where your fingers are at that particular moment. Wondering as I blink away the water where do you rest your head. What land do your hands reside? With which man do your lips find purpose now? Whose back do your fingernails now trace and drag until there is nothing left but moans and pleasurable tones.

Whose hands do you draw hearts with on your bare breasts?

What bookshelf do you now share and at it stare until the pages are all read from the hardocover glory of your past, to the paperback of your present and the unpenned draft of what promises and consequences all of your future – your very nearest and clearest one?

What spine forms the expanse of all that captures you tonight?

And how does it compare when you power down with your own plush pillow and you stare; so hard and long at the lavender paint peeling on the above cracked and cratered ceiling with only the hum of your humidifier the partner of the dance that is the music softly sprawling from the amplifier that echoes back to you your midnight soundtrack?

With the words sung so softly when they follow you and they fade, they fade to black, do you find your fingers drifting and your mind sleepily sifting through the memories of you and the possibility that was me until I am all you can write.

And all you can have.

Where do your fingers roam?

Where do they call home?

In this our milky way of hope that is you and I with just enough tethered rope to tie ourselves off from the world, from ever falling and failing, from ever crawling and derailing, from ever being something else that is not us, from you and I to the lips of an angel and the heart of a soft tender kiss.

On those cracked and bitten finger’s tips.

Where do they roam?

Where have you gone?

When I am everything, and everything is you and I.

And I am here.

I am home.

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Brian Milici
April 16, 2015

Last updated April 16, 2015