We walked home together, only in separate hours,
each a brushed and scrubbed foundling,
set upon a new path in the thinning hour,
just to follow an old route and boundary.
Neither built or unmade,
our newest house is squat and plain.
All of its doors beset with roads,
found by some, then lost again.
Still, even the smallest windows glint in the late sun;
joyous, welcome, and bright chaos in the thin winter sun,
like spectacles on a favorite aunt,
her smile harboring all, and expecting none.
We are always walking home, and most will never know that we ever left,
where we’ve been and how we’ve left,
we are always coming home, together,
as absences standing in for our kind regrets.