How can one be expected to mend a broken heart, when her own heart can barely keep up? Where do I draw from my own strength when I look out over that internal reservoir I felt was full only moments ago and now stands empty. Dried out. Useless. The pain is unrelenting. The walls are up. 

If there is one thing worse

than all others in this life

it's waking up under the current belief

that you are home.

That if you were to chose 

you could open those white French doors

your mother had installed during the renovations

and stand, barefoot,

on the brink of where childhood meets

infinite admiration

listening for the sound of far off rain

and Caribbean crosswinds. 

You could walk the expanse of the porch

and let your legs swing over its edge

and simply exist.

Without fear of what may come next.

But you're not home.

It was a trick of your brain in its

half conscious state.

Brought on by the track of Coquis

you now must play to help you fall asleep.

No, you're not home at all.

But instead trapped beneath blankets

and smog

and the cries of the less fortunate

relieving themselves in the street below your window.

There is no pain greater I think

than to believe with all hope you are home

and to find, instead, that you are not

nor will you be for a long time.