A bed not my own

You can always go home.

Waking up in a bed
In my childhood house that is still
Not mine, but is home.

Drinking coffee from a carafe
My father brewed it, extra strong
As my daughter still sleeps.

In the room one over
The one that was once mine through
Teenage dreams and formative years.

I creep downstairs quietly
Wood floors that creak with every step
A hug from my mom.

To start th…