Sometimes I run from safety
Sometimes I run from home
From myself and the familiar driveway I’ve turned on
To get further into the dark
To get into trouble out there
To scrape my knees and bruise my elbows and get burs in my hair and dirt on my cheek and
To get a bit scared
To think for a minute I don't know the way back
I can’t remember the turn
But what I do remember is that home has changed
I have changed
I don't live here anymore
I've been running from what was to find what I've made
And its 

The way it smells when you open the door 

Like sweat and leather and dogs and our bedroom and coffee and whatever shouldn’t have gone in the trash last night and wood smoke and sometimes honey
And your neck smells like this when I kiss you and when I hop in your truck and when you crush me in a hug and when I've missed you 

When I miss you I
I search through my clothing for something that rubbed on you
That picked you up
So that I can remember again
So that I can smash my face into and feel home rush over me
like blood like bath water like underwater like us
I pick up pieces of stone you’ve left on the table and notes you’ve scrawled on my bedside table and your handwriting on a package I've put in with the recycling but can’t bring myself to throw out and I’m frantic now scrabbling for drops of it for scraps of it for just a bit more just a little bit more
And then 

I hear your truck hit the gravel
I know your lights and they sweep across the window flashing