Our Unconditional Home

		I heard a voice.

				I thought it was you,
threading the memory 
				of our knitted home,
a cloth of the unknown,
		sheltering as a place
					called love. 

Longing feeling at home, 
			when I see myself 
through the mirror of time.

My reflection paints 
			a gift, called sun,
putting forth a dream:
			the birth 
				of our breath,
as drawing ourselves with freedom, 
being from outside the space 
				that limits us. 

Longing feeling at home, 
			the place, called ‘I’,
is not enough to give me the solace
a mirror of memoirs can't bring.

If I don't dissolve myself,
			losing all sadness,
			facing all madness
that is knowing but not being, 
that is speaking but not understanding, 
that is threading but not becoming
		something more than a cloth 
that hides you from me, me from you,
		something more than a place,
a space, a face, a gaze,
			 our unconditional home.