The wooden door squeaks open,
her haunting face shines in candlelight.
Power cuts are still common.
Cobwebs still crowd the ceilings,
the window pane on the left is still broken.
My high heels don't feel at home on the shabby floor.
She welcomes me in;
that shabby alcove
where i had left her,lifetimes back.
Before i wandered
alone midst the cacophony
of foreign tongues, high street clothing
plastic money and plastic smiles.
Hills and fields i crossed, rode into the horizon,
I have crawled back
grasping hands of the familiar ghosts i had abandoned.
They never abandoned me.
I look at her
she passes me a smile
I smile back at myself.
My high heels don't feel home on the shabby floor.
I feel home.