Here,
among the bedroom I grew up in,
notebooks dated 
back from middle school,
books crammed into
the small, green bookshelf,
overflowing into stacks on the
floor. 
From my bed I can see the faded
glow in the dark stars 
stuck on the old mirror. A soft
purple blanket,
a gift from my lover’s mother,
covers the bed. 
Surrounded by stacks of 
paper scattered across the kitchen table and a 
fridge that never seems to replenish
itself. 
The pug’s snorting, snuffling, and shrill
barks, the cat brushing up against
my leg. 
The cry of the gulls I heard outside my dorm replaced with
the chirping of robins and wrens. 
Only you 
can take away
the ocean view from my dorm’s balcony,
and the organized desk whose shelves housed
all my books and utensils
which have now been replaced with a kitchen table covered
in papers.
Only you can 
cause me to revert to my habit of going without meals
because Miley is simpler, less expensive than home. 
Only you can disrupt
the schedule I’ve grown accustomed to
and force me to adjust. 
Only you can. 
--Katy