Roaming around it,
I know I’ll miss this place
When it’s time to leave.

This sun-stained face with
Heritage curb appeal.

These paint-swatch eyes
Scuffed by struggle,
Flecked with joy.

These arms that held
People who are now
Only pictures.

This comfortable chest
With its spare room,
Decorated with love.

This waist, a crooked
Hallway between hope
And nostalgia.

The leg scars that the kids
Measured their growth against,
When I stood tall,
And they still looked up
In wonder.

These knees that creak,
Like the side door
Reserved for friends.

These epilated shins
With marble-veined facade.

The left pinky toe,
Still crouched in surfing stance,
Like I was when I broke it
Trying to impress a pretty girl.

This place.
This sweet, sustaining ephemera.
This home,
Was only ever rented.

Bryson Thomas