This is not my house

This is not my house, this is not my home. I am a stranger living in a strange place. I want to go home. But my home has been sold and no longer belongs to me. I am homeless with nowhere to go. My heart is broken for the friends I left behind. For my park, for my balcony, for my beautiful home that we’d redone from floor to ceiling. My friends, oh my friends. It is a rupture, a tearing away. Where will I find such friends again? Like a sad wraith I roam around, hoping for some relief from the pain and emptiness but it never comes. I don’t cry because if I start, I may never stop again. Yes it’s purported to be a paradise, but as usual, I would rather have visited and gone home. But there is no home. Yes, the rooms are pretty, the.colors of the walls are nice. But when I reach to turn on a light, my hand meets nothing. I open the cupboard to take out some tea, there’s everything but tea in it. I look outside, instead of the beautiful tree lined parkway, I see strange environs. I am here, but my heart is 500 miles away. No one understands my mourning of my life past. I must bear my suffering alone. Yes this is a house, but it is not my home.