The Mirage of Home

I am always the one left stranded,

abandoned on a road where the light ran out.

I am forced to navigate a map I cannot read,

without a hand to steady me

or a voice to pull me from the dirt when I fall.

I wander without a compass or a star.

Some days, the glow of a window is so close I could touch it;

others, I realize home is just a mirage I’ve chased for years,

a beautiful lie that kept my feet moving

until I finally stepped off the edge.

I’ve been walking for years,

hunting for whatever it is that makes a person whole.

The warmth that makes others stop

and turn their faces to the sun.

Maybe home isn’t a place meant for me.

Perhaps I am a permanent ghost,

haunting abandoned houses

where the chaos in the corners

can never fill this hollow space.

The walking is over, but the weight has just begun.

I am standing in the remains of a life I never got to live.

My heart is a liar that refuses to stop,

it wants to build a fire out of the splinters

of a home that was never more than a memory

I used to trick myself into moving.

But my mind is tired.

It is a ceiling ready to cave in,

heavy with the weight of the road.

One day, I want to be still.

Not because I’ve collapsed,

but because I finally recognize the ground beneath me

and find it enough to stay.