Graces.

When I was little
I used to draw pictures
of spaces

like homes
in my dreams

someplace safe

though
I don't know exactly
what safe looks like

is it a gun or bars on the windows

or pair of arms that
could hold me

I see

running water through the living room
and fish swimming around

my personal ocean

windows that span
floor to ceiling

so that the world outside
isn't so external

like melting
away
through the thin skin
of glass

trailing all the way to the
ends of the earth
and back again

in one continuous flow
of energy

every inch of the shifting plates
the trembling crusts
my playground

no place foreign
every language spoken

faces familiar
and friendly

every animal my brother or sister
every emotion driven by instinct
primal
not overburdened

by filters
or society

a place to lay my head
down on a soft pillow
or the fur of my cat
the shoulder of my mother
or the chest of my lover

dreams that don't haunt me
or cause me to cry
days becoming longer

in the field
with long grasses
I lay with legs stretched

staring at the sky

trying to extend myself upward
to the heavenly bodies

to the furthest reaches
to the next dimensions

only to return to this body
the only home I understand
completely