Home is where

If home is where the heart is, my home is still in Kansas City.

Not because of sports or because local views are pretty.

Not because of childhood memories of friends and accolades.

Not because of summer fundraisers selling lemonade.

It's because my heart's been stuck there in a cozy warm apartment.

The smell of coffee lingers and she cooks with paper parchment.

But if you travel to the closet, the one that's filled with all the garments.

You pull back all the clothes and open a dusty, lost compartment.

That's where I am, that's why home can't leave, it's a crucial youthful part of me.

My heart's contained in a little box, behind the socks, with a keyless lock.

No fragile stamp, just a "Do Not Touch." Right beside it, a beat-up clutch.

Full of old favorites—lipsticks and lotions, smells reminiscent of long lost emotions.

If I could make one request, this is all I would ask. Keep it please, don't ship it back.

Even if it's just gonna sit there for years, a silent kept secret from all of your peers.

Even if without it I can't find a new home, and I can't kick this feeling of being alone.

I'll know there's a chance that you'll peek back one day, and maybe you'll give me one last chance to say...