// East //
Every home I have resided in,
I face the bed to a window.
For I am to houses,
What clothes are to people.
Transitory.
Every single day,
I wake up in the morning
Not recognizing the walls,
But, the window,
The window remains my east.
The world, through every window
Remains vibrant, forever new,
And then somehow,
The homes left behind
Start to matter less.
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