Home is Where the Heart is

And when there is no heart?
Look around, crowded with things,
empty except for the hum, harsh static undercurrent.
Cannot think, feel, brain in tomographic slices,
sliced, diced, split and reformulated into neat stacks.
Cut the deck. Shuffle. Shuffle. Shuffle.
This way madness lies.

Once, you whispered, “You are my home,
Where you go, I will go, and where you stay, I will stay.”
How could I?
Homeless myself, you fill the empty in me.
Synesthesia, you are my purple, fresh cut wood, cinnamon, Vivaldi.
Am I as dear as salt to you? Am I?
Now? Ever?
Am I?