Another Wayward Love Letter to Atlanta

I’m still wondering if you can be homeless and homebound at the same time? Concurrently adrift and set to some unknown path. A lighted beacon, a glowing hearth…
I know without realizing I don’t belong or realize without speaking the words.
I know you write love letters to Chicago, Providence, New York; I leave post-its for Atlanta on my fridge. We only speak in snippets; terse conversation of an impeding divorce. She wishes I’d sign the papers already and leave. And I wonder if we were ever in love or in love with the idea of being so.
I wonder if this was a marriage of convenience. She kept me afloat for a while…
And perhaps, I owe her something for this, roses on the eve of tomorrows that might never come. She always tried harder than I to make this work.
I’m still wandering towards something that instinctually feels like home. Both well aware she can’t be it for me, no lighted beacon, no glowing hearth; but she leaves the lamp on in case—still lost—I find myself stumbling back.

National Poetry Month - Day 14

Dear Atlanta,
you are my in-between love
or the love that happened without looking for love
(in all the wrong places)
or a really strong like. You are that kinda-friend
open door and free couch; letting me rest here
without a calendar, without motivation
without pushing me to stay-
or go. And I could love you for that,
but you would be well aware when I kiss you my heart wasn't really in it...
my heart is miles ahead of me.
I can't smile at you with my eyes, and I can't lie:
you've given me more pain than pleasure, left more scars
than your worth; that's why you're an in-between place
and I'm in-between staying and leaving you.


ugh..I hate that ending....jeez...