Hometown Blues | Poetry

When my past comes knocking on my door,
it does so with a perfect smile.
You squeeze me tight and kiss my cheek
and smell just the same.
Your eyes twinkle in poor lighting and
your voice fills every corner.

My past wants to know about my future
my present
and where it fits in
because if my past is here
then it can't be the past anymore.

What was once I thought a closed door
shut firmly with the promise
that it was for the best
that it wouldn't hurt as much
now sits firmly open
and my past is working on the hinges
taking it down once and for all.

My past is familiar and comforting
in a place we both don't know.

He is home wherever I go.

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