The Home I Crave
O, for the cathedral of another's arms—
that sacred architecture built of breath and bone,
where I might pilgrimage from all my wandering,
lay down the weight of being so alone.
I hunger for the scripture of their skin,
the verses written in the curve of spine,
to read myself to sleep against their shoulder,
and wake to find my story mingled with thine.
Not house nor hearth could hold what I am seeking—
this temple that two beating hearts can raise,
where silence speaks in languages of touching,
and darkness blooms with more than light can praise.
I ache to be geography to someone,
a country they would cross all worlds to find,
where every kiss maps uncharted territories,
and every sigh draws borders undefined.
To dwell within the climate of their choosing,
to weather all their seasons, fierce and mild,
to be both shelter and the thing sheltered,
beloved and lover, parent and child.
Here, in this holy hollow of belonging,
I would not merely rest, but resurrect—
not just be held, but held as something precious,
not just be known, but known and genuflect.
For I have been a stranger to my own heart,
a wanderer who forgot how to stay,
until I find that country of connection
where "mine" and "yours" dissolve to "we" and "way."
Come, let us build this sanctuary together—
no cornerstone but trust, no roof but sky,
where I am not a guest within your life,
but life itself, where neither of us dies
to who we were before this recognition:
that home was never place, but always this—
the sweet conspiracy of souls converging,
the covenant sealed with more than a kiss.
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