This guy feels like home. His smell is juggling my brain
in the course of the night when no one else can narrate to my senses.
He feels like home, though I've never fully touched his palms,
covered in tobacco smells and whiffs of incense.
This guy feels like home. His posture is no threat to my sight
as he gains control of the room by standing still with a glass of wine.
He feels like home smiling at every thought of mine,
polite as fuck, given that to such act he would never incline.
This guy feels like home. He's promising to me a ride on a bike,
yet he means the earth with its trees and seas and sand.
He feels like home, though this place I'd never like
and seducing him would never go as planned.
This guy feels like home. I never look into his eyes,
like a scorned daughter only inspects her father's feet.
Relentless, he decides to meet with me every time I invent some reason.
I'd go away, leave hometown, but just hoping seems so sweet.