Home Is The Last Six Doors Down The Hall

Home is the last six doors down the hall
Past the rooms with bright lights and clean walls,
Past the rooms with the spotless windows
And doors that don’t creak, that aren’t broken;
Past the posters that scream, “you can do it”
And whisper, “but not all of you will”.

Home is the afternoon light streaming in
And bouncing off the glossy bodies of our lives–
Shining on hands and strings and scores
That lie scattered on the tile floors;
It is the smiles that glow in the sunset
And stay warm as the sky grows dark.

Home is the smell of another’s smoke,
And the open fire of another’s song.
It is the warmth of belonging,
And the heat of friction;
It is the breeze of familiarity
And the chill of danger.

Home is the kids with claws on one hand,
And callouses on the fingertips of the other.
It is the knowing glances and subtle smirks
They slip each other as they pass.
It is the hours that sneak away unnoticed
In their wild, warm company.



Home is the last six doors down the hall
And those who keep it open.