the voices in the morning

There are voices I love to hear in the morning, and fall asleep to as they murmur along with the constant London rain, my family across the ocean. There aren't words to describe the way these fingers and toes and livers and spleens have wriggled their way into my heart.

my hidden quiet

I have lived in this house for over a year now, longer than any house since I "came of age," and the corners of it have become so much a home that I cannot even fathom returning to the country of my birth and having to let go of my favourite place to rest my bones.

the pristine quiet

it was almost a cliche, plumbing the depths of my past in an all white house, with space and quiet and tears, and the sharp tongue of anger that I had hidden from for so long, but there was a freedom, too, in the quiet of the summer, in the hush of freedom.

the times between

the times between were the growing times,
when we woke up to snow and still traveled north,
when we waited on Westminster Bridge for the turn of the year,
when I learned to be loved and to love more than I ever had before.

boroughs and bus stops

i met a house on a busy street

between bus stops and borough signs

and I made my home in a chaotic rush

and splintered pieces of my heart to leave behind

the home attached to my heartstrings

I have lived in the northwest side of London for over three months now, and I've gotten used to falling asleep to the sound of the train and singing along to the symphony of sirens.

The thing about this home is that it moves as swiftly as the city that surrounds it. These are the moments that have defined home for me for the past three months.