Belonging

It’s a funny little thing that I say

throughout the day, in a very particular way:

I don’t really belong here. 

And it’s a funny little thing

because those words have a ring

no matter my calling or where I go.

 

The trees are aligned

with their drooping limbs

and the squirrels shuffle up

each one of them with flickering tails;

the sunlight giggles as it rises

tickling the leaves as her lips

send forth the morning breeze.

 

The staircase to my room

creaks with a glee, a sweet affection,

and I turn the key into a door

that has known so many more

before little old me.

I don’t belong here, 

I hear myself say in that

old, redundant, worn out way.

 

I sweep my eyes over each possession,

the things around me from my life:

an obsession of running, thrill of the race,

shelves full of books, taking up a space

that belongs to nothing else. My heart

flickers with the candle on my desk

and the the rest of my stuff hugs me

from behind: that gentle way

like a lover’s soft touch on the neck.

You belong here, they say.

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