Apollo's Home

do you know the word home?

do you know what it means?

do you know what it 

smellstastessounds 

like? 

do you know what it 

feels 

like 

?

do you know what home 

doesn’t 

smelltastesound

feel 

like

?

it doesn’t smell like bleach from a 

a pristinely cleaned kitchen or

the new paint in that 

cold uninviting grey.

it doesn’t taste like leftovers from last week or

“go buy yourself a pizza-

I won’t be home for dinner”

((again)) 

It doesn’t sound like you yelling at me or 

hitting me or 

hurting me at all. 

no, 

a home with no feeling is no home at all. 

and it would take God Himself to change it. 

…

or maybe, just, a Godsend. 

do you know Apollo?

do you know who he is?

the God of 

truth and

music and 

healing and 

who

the

heck

cares?

he’s dead anyways, isn’t he?
 

((isn’t he?))

if only Apollo himself

would knock at my door

maybe then i'd actually invite someone in

maybe then i'd stop noticing the walls

maybe then this would feel like home.

he’d ask me what’s wrong and i’d tell him just what

not censoring my words at all.

i’m so certain he’d listen, and nod and think

look me in the eyes 

state the truth 

and help me pick up the pieces

he’d trail behind him the hum of a song, a little jig in his feet. 

we’d make dinner together

gnocci, our favorite, 

dancing mamba to our favorite beats.

we’d sing so loud our neighbors would hear us

(that’s the only yelling there’d be)

no hitting

no screaming

no hurting

just healing.

if Apollo could be here with me. 

as hard as it was

and is

and will be-

i guess i’ll get by 

"put on my big girl pants"

and get over it

alone.

except

wait actually

it’s just

that i’ve realized:

Apollo’s alive in my mum. 

we don't care if the kitchen is dirty

we don't care if it's pristine

we know we have eachother

and that's all the home we need.