Homeward bound.

A room.

It’s yearnings can’t be swept away with a broom.

Fuchsia walls; smelling of deodorant, dust and memory.

Bed boxes mark it’s occupant’s treasury.

Letters hidden in literature textbooks.

Worn out with stolen looks.

A rendition of Hotel California.

Food cravings and midnight phone calls.

The latter usually consists of drunken drawls.

Hopelessness and tears.

A culmination of teenage fears.

A conversation with the best friend.

Who stays till the end.

And suddenly I’m on the mend.



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