Mary Hockenbery (reddirtrose)
this is what home looks like
It’s night and the careless snow falls quietly and softly elegant on the town where I live — but it’s not home. The haloed streetlamps cast subdued light on the snow-hushed lane that leads me to the small house I share with the one I love — but that’s not home. The house itself, cuddled in the snow, with winkles of light escaping through the curtained windows with the haint-blue shutters — that’s not home. The opened door, the flush of warmth, the handwoven rug just inside — not home. Not really.
The cheek is home. The curve of shoulder. Hands that fit. Eyes. And that smile.
This is what home looks like. This is what home looks like.
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