You're Like Home

I could say:
when I see you
I am home.

I could say:
I want to take a walk
but only if you're with me.

I could say:
run up to my house,
stay until dark,
and then

we could kiss,
but only after
we have competed for each other's love

and have realized
that we have won.

But!

The river of anxiety
in my heavy chest
twists my words.

I remember one night
I dreamt of you
with a cigarette in your mouth.

I cried and yelled
and wanted to slap you
even when I opened my eyes.

See,

if I were to lay
on your disheveled sheets;

homework on the floor,
indifferent turtles on your desk,

I would not feel like
a cake-faced, red-lipped
get-it-from-whomever girl.

I would not feel
guilty, used, dirty, easy
regretful 'till my late twenties.

It would feel just like
the sun shining through my shutters,
heating up my blanket
on a bright suburban day.

It would feel just like
the slight breeze on a summer night
whispering through your open window
carrying the scent of the ocean.

It would probably feel
(It WOULD feel)
just like home.