i want a word for the almost-home.
that point where the highway’s monotony becomes familiar
that subway stop whose name will always wake you from day’s-end dozing
that first glimpse of the skyline
that you never loved until you left it behind.
what do you call the exit sign you see even in your dreams?
is there a name for the airport terminal you come back to,
i need a word for rounding your corner onto your street,
for seeing your city on the horizon,
for flying homewards down your highway.
give me a word for the boundary
between the world you went to see
and the small one you call your own.
i want a word for the moment you know
you’re almost home.
humans are kinda cute we pass stories down generations to instill a sense of wonder in people we’ll never know and we have little bells on our houses to tell each other that we’ve arrived and we shiver when we get cold and we have an endless amount of curiosity and if the night sky is clear our first instinct is to look up at the stars and think about going on big adventures