We gather orange peels in the palms of our hands. We huddle in stairwells, in schoolhalls, to dream.
We believe in other versions of our selves.
Where we roam is not our home but even so we live there; there where the leaves crunch beneath our feet and the doors creak and fall upon their hinges. There where we break in—through the window—with our boots—following this constant home-bound desire.
If there are two kinds of fear, then we are ever fearful that the door we stay out looking for—the red door, falling on its hinges and peeling—will forever elude us, will forever be one state over, there where the other self is kissing his bride and going off to war.