the sound of my dad’s guitar
playing his favorite chords
the typing of my mom’s fingers
going through family records
the smell of the ceramics studio
full of the kiln, dust and glaze
the running home to the smell
of pot roast on a Sunday
the touch of the smooth keys
on the piano I hated to play
the cool breeze with your
eyes closed and ocean’s spray
the taste of thick, cheesy grits
that mom made when I was sad
or grandma’s cookies that she
loved to bake for granddad
but what feels the most like home
is the sound of your laugh
the touch of your hand
and the taste of your lips
that make you my man
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