Leaving your home is like leaving my own
if mine was not covered in sunken eyes
stuck to their lids, lightless, glued shut.
Leaving your home guarantees sleep,
dreams of eating ginger salad by your
window, flicking ash off the fourth floor.
Leaving your home means remembering
when we walked the length of Rockaway
and those kids shot rockets at our feet.
Leaving your home makes me afraid
to board the train, because your grip on
my overcoat is absent, made antimatter.
Leaving your home leaves me
alone, for you purged the earth
of all the pretty, pastel peoples.
Leaving your home is a step into
what is left of my place that you’ve
never seen, never wanted to go
because it is home to no one.