How intimate is your connection with your home?
Sometimes, life becomes so complex that we expect at least the lines of a poem to stay simple.
It is surreal when you hear someone praise you but not so much when you realize it wasn't probably you in the first place, just time that day, playing with your words and actions which you might or might not approve as your past or future self.
The last of you was lovable and I am sure the present of you is too and I know all your versions are.
I get life. I know shit happens.
Meet me in the middle of your story. When the soul is worn but wise.
Do you know the Bona fide me?
There is much more always left, a vacancy which no one can fathom.
Can a few things be meant for you and few things not?