The bell reverberates to signal to workers that the

clock has struck six ‘o clock.

It is time to go home.

It is evening and everyone is heading home.

Except me.

Home is where I live with sweet, nice man I didn’t

love.

I would walk slowly, wandering the streets and

parks to let time pass by.

I would think of my ex holding my waist, reciting his

corny love poetries that almost always made me

laugh.

Ah! The love that could never be.

The pungent smell of friday nights

the nights of mad fun and violent fights,

where the cold wind never deters anyone from

breakdancing.

The mighty gust forces me to go home through the

quiet dark streets of my town.

The trees swish and I am tired of my lies.

When will I be honest? Will I ever be?

I reach the house where the sweet, nice man who

loves me dearly, awaits me.

I enter and close the door.

The truth is:

Home is where love is, where I am loved.