Stretched out arms reach into the cooling air, keeping my distance from those around me.

Yet, welcoming them to do the same.

 

A sense of home can be of warmth,

But also of Abandonment,

Of those of should have loved me,

But didn’t somehow,  Or could not show it.

 

Perhaps they did, but all I remember is the broken windows,

The winter wind which blew through our lives,

Not in malice,

But a reflection of a poverty, I didn’t know.

 

From which, someone who truly cared, protected me.

So, I might only know love.

 

The receipt of love does not require you to love,

Only to be open and accepting,

For love permeates the air like a mist,

Recognizable, but cannot be held.

 

For only open hands can retain love,

As we sit contained in a cloud of unknowing.