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 I am flipping pennies in my hotel room,

Waiting on some sign or signal.

I’m crying and can’t catch my breath —

I did not anticipate this to be so painful.

My childhood wounds are gnawing from the inside and I’m trying to settle myself.

I’ve began collecting pennies both heads and tails from sidewalks,

So when it lands I do not know what it means.

I long for his voice on the phone,

To bury my face deep in his chest.


I remember sitting in his lap as he cried after he spoke on the phone with his father,

The way I kissed his shoulder and hands while it was on speaker phone.

Afterwards he told me, “you feel like home, you feel so safe to me.”


But what does one say when home has been a word dissected and reconfigured over the years?

I know there’s a lot I can say about someone reminiscent of my childhood,

But I cannot stop crying after seeing her.

I cannot stop.


It is hard to create metaphors or motifs or even just meaning,


I think I may drown.

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