I am always in the room,
a room where I isolated myself,
Thinking of what will happen tomorrow?
The sound of a cheap electric fan whizzing noise reverberates through the ceiling,
The broken clock that hung still ticking and tocking—
and from the walls of the room echo with my silent longing,
As I lay here immersed in homesickness, longing for belonging.
I smell a sudden scent of my childhood lingers in the air—
but it eventually fades and disappears in the stagnant heat outside.
I close my eyes, trying to conjure the familiar sights,
The sound of my father's laugh,
the warmth of family nights—
but someone knocked at the door,
the door of accepting the reality—
I opened my eyes, all I see is an empty and messy room— a homesick where flowers don't bloom,
but a constant sweetest pain of longing.

© G. E.G. Martinez
4/22/24