Thinking over and above,
About the dream i'm living, now.
About the same dream I had as a kid, in the past.
I would have moved out,
Of my home, the home still in my imagination.
Coming back years later.
To sit on the cracked kitchen platform.
To play with the old dog.
To get a pat on the shoulder from dad.
To stuff myself with mom's food.
To get annoyed by siblings.
To sit in the turned-brown garden,
Among the wilted dried roses.
To meet long lost friends,
And gossip about all muses.
I did. I did move out and apart,
Of my home, the home still in my memory.
Going back years later.
To find the house rotten and locked.
To look at the dog's memorial.
To see dad's image waiting at the gate.
To hear mom's cries.
To distanced siblings waving goodbye.
To look at the building standing on the garden,
Among other concrete heartless houses.
To meet long lost friends,
And talk about our dreams,
Dreamt, lived, or forgotten.
It's heart pumping.
It's gut-doesn't-feel-good.
It's leg trembling.
It's tongue-feels-dry.
At the same time,
It's happy-for-you greetings.
It's what-have-i-achieved reflections.
It's i'm-a-grown-up now nostalgia.
It's home.
No matter how painful.
No matter how distant.
No matter how,
Doesn't-feel-like-home-anymore.
It's home.
-uk