In the dark, after the sun has finished setting
pink and purple washed away with the stroke of a wet brush
the glow of my laptop screen reflecting on the frame of my glasses
an empty chocolate ice cream carton and a silver spoon in need of washing
the remaining taste of sugar and bitter ointment on my lips
I opened a folder titled Voice and listened to recordings of
rain tapping against the windowpane
the sinking weight of piano keys without notes
a raspy voice singing softly to an orchestrated sad arrangement
transports me to an empty room where the carpet smelled of dust
my young and my parents' voices laughing in a coffee shop
where we awaited a college tour
wanting to go home
Stopping in the middle of a short story
on the train from work
we live in museums,
I read the line over and over
and feel watchful eyes touching my left temple and cheek
an older man sitting beside me crosses his legs
when I stand, the push of the train throws me forward
gripping the bar
looking for a door out
I understand now
when I was young, I was searching for a way out
that sad and sweet little voice
all this time
only wanted to find home