I think of tropical monsoons and coconut trees swaying in the furious wind. I think of guavas and mangoes and spiders as big as a man’s palm.
I think of the hot California valley, swimming pools, and strawberry fields as far as I can see.
I think of New York city streets, libraries and museums and theatres and cafes.
I think of a Victorian mansion with a view of the Manhattan skyline. I think of art, antiques, and taxidermy. I think of bohemians and decadence.
I think of a California cottage by the bay, overrun by ivy. I think of dot-com days and swinging nights. I think of friends on the futon.
I think of a home by the lagoon. I think of ducks and geese and my baby. I think of young buff men fucking my thirsty mom body.
I think of a little red cabin by a Maine lake. I think of being underwater all summer.
I think of a modern cottage on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean, surfers on the beach below, sand constantly between my toes.
I think of an old farmhouse and barn in Maine. I think of ghosts and absolution.
You are my home and I am yours.
