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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