When I return home

Home
smells like laundry left in the drawer too long
the air tastes of food or time when I pull on a shirt
that I haven’t thought of in months.
Standing
on a crumbling wooden pier,
looking across an ocean
that I dread crossing
but I don’t dare stay here.
When I return home
I will wish I had stayed home.
‘Home is where the heart is’
but my heart is spread too thin
over too many homes, too many things to cherish.

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