Coming Home

Home long stopped existing for people like me.
I don’t find my foods,
I can't see my friends,
I no longer speak my language;
here they don’t read my newspapers.

When I return to those who do,
I realize I no longer belong there either.
I no longer remember the streets
the exact bus fare
the recent stories.

“You will never be complete again,”
a friend warned me,
though only once I had made my fate.
Would I do it again, I wonder.
Are glories enough to abandon origins?

And maybe I would.
I think I would,
though not just for the intellectual freedom.
Not for the chance to taste difference.
Not for a myth of self-made achievement.

I would do it all again
to meet my incomplete counterpart.
My history books on his shelf,
my porn in his browser
because he wants me to cum before he does.

Being incomplete is disorienting.
I don’t know if I am still me,
if I made the right decisions,
if I was an agent or if I was a victim.
I sometimes forget my own language.

I mispronounce my name.
I forget where I got lost,
how I got here,
I forget what it feels like
to have a home.

But always, when I most need it,
he embarks on a mission to convince me
that every decision led to this moment.
That we were born 7 years, 2300 miles apart
because life would drive us together.

The chores invisibly done
bath bombs picked, linens ironed
the sex marathon sick days.
The hungry “I missed you” when I’m close,
the warmth of his seed flooding me.

Arms that hold my body against his,
lips that kiss my neck back into reality.
The big spoon that does not let go at night.
The hands that stay on my curves,
making them his.

He soothes me with soft kisses
until the neighbor comes to say hi,
until I learn the farmer saved me produce.
He holds my gaze until it’s time
to hear the little voices at the front door.

“You’re finally home!”