it’s like going home to a house, dry grass crunching beneath your feet as you walk into the horizon. there’s ashes and graves where there used to be laughter, and the jingles under the tree don’t make your heart sing anymore. there are sticks and the makings of a bed where a home once stood and it’s silent. like your heart on the day you came home to a house. people ask how it feels to lose everything, you say; quiet. it’s quiet in your head and eyes, but it’s heavy, too, and maybe heavy is quiet. maybe the grave is home, and that’s the only home you’ll ever have. maybe walking into oblivion is walking home. just going, going, going. going home. maybe.