His arms were home

Night upon my frame, San Sebastian beach in front of my eyes engulfing their blurry vision, tiny pen grasped between my fingers, blood inebriated by liquid and evil spirits alike. Hugsjà on repeat on my MP3 player, both stabbing and calming my soul once, and again, and yet again. Mediterranean humidity as the only real agent, the only thing in the world to hold my consciousness of where I was—in crude opposition to where every cell of my exhausted body yearned to be.

It’s been a while since. Little has improved from that night on.

Because yeah—this is also me.

His arms were home,
stout, haunted home
where I would have hidden
from long-struggled ghosts
till the end of times…
His arms were home.

His arms were shelter
for a million alike
lost, broken souls
to warm our bones
like moths in a flame…
His arms were shelter.

His arms were a cave,
so veiled a cave
nested in a cliff
o’harsh, stony rocks
from where fabled sirens
lulled me primal chants.

And now here I stand
homeless and unsheltered,
the merciless air
of this doomed land
as the only being
to embrace my frame,

each and every inch
of my exposed skin
enduring its toll…
for my open wounds
feel brought back to life
yet with every gust.

Me, no-time picked,
Me, nowhere child.

 

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