The Epilogue of Wanderlust
Wanderlust etched in the calcium of her bones,
Sprinkled like the dust of pixies in the carbon of her soul.
Searching for a pair of arms and a soft smile to call them her home,
On the streets whose names she can’t pronounce where directions are written in a foreign dialect, she rummaged and roam.
Rummaged and Roam.
Hunting for a home latched in a heartbeat,
Ferreted around aesthetic avenues and the reminiscent ruins on the upper street.
But darling, you can’t make homes inside the hearts of people.
People are clouds,
Fluid. Ever-changing. Their souls wrapped in the kaleidoscope of shrouds.
Yet, the home you’re hunting for does have a heartbeat. It exists,
The keys to that house are the capillaries and the veins in your wrists.
Sweetheart, your heart is your own home.
Its rhythmicity is not locked in anyone else’s chest. It cadences inside your own.
There’s the hum of your favourite lullaby crooning under the rotten floorboards,
Maybe it has got some cracked windows, an array of traumatic recollections untold.
Perhaps there are muffled sobs hours past midnight on the cold hardwood floors,
Maybe a name lingers in those tear-soaked and mascara-stained pillows.
But there are memories adorning on your bookshelves,
Smells of biscuits and cinnamon, archaic typewriters, front porch swings and the tales they tell.
Balloons filled with helium of dreams sit on your mantelpiece,
Trophies shaped achievements stood align with passions and far-fetched fantasies.
Inside secret doors beyond the hidden ravine, there’s a chamber of mirages,
Purple trees, zigzag lines, sounds of the colour and embarrassing photos and collages,
Monsters spinning a ballerina inside that sinister music box,
Fingers crossed while walking alone on a deserted street, the menacing smile of your neighbour and hands shivering on the rusted lock.
They say, “Home is where the heart is.”
But they don’t tell you, “Your heart is your home.”
Darling, home doesn’t have an address. Home never had an address,
It beats 115,200 times a day within you. A beautiful ordered mess.
So when things become too much and you feel too weak to push the forward button,
Push the home button and you’ll realise how much you need yourself.
Because wanderlust doesn’t always have to end in someone’s arms,
Sometimes it ends in your own.
It ends in your own. ~ Enigma
Picture Credits: Pinterest.com
Copyright © 2016-2018 Enigma. All rights reserved.
Linking it up with Word of the Day Challenge-Wanderlust