Home for You

What is WolfCast?

Literary performance, essays, and spoken-word confessions from an author known only as Woolfinius Jackson Whürl. A voice from the Dust Meridian, reading the pages he never meant to send.

> 'What is your home?' A stranger asks.

Home (for you, my love)

Home?

No.
Not what I once named it.
Not walls, nor roads remembered
by the body’s tired return.

Home has slipped its geography.
It no longer answers to maps.

Listen,
I will tell you, my friend,
of a home with no address,
no door,
no fixed sky...

only a mind.

*The* mind.

Yours.

Where I wander
like a pilgrim without sleep,
touching the edges of your thoughts
as if they were holy cloth.

I left a place once called home;
a source, perhaps,
a well I drank from
without ever being quenched.

What is a home
if the heart refuses it?
If it does not loosen there,
does not lay down its armor,
does not breathe?

No—

Home is not where a man
hangs his hat.

It is where he loses himself
entirely.

And mine...
mine is not here.

Not fully.

It is cleaved.
like light through glass,
like a prayer spoken in two languages—

here,
and there,
and in the terrible distance between.

You...

You are my home.

I have driven whole nights
through the dark of myself
to reach you,

whispering your name
like a rhythm against the wheel,
like a vow I could not break
if I tried.

I would come to you
in the hour when breath is deepest,
when the world forgets itself—

not to wake you,
but to *feel* you there,
to exist in the same quiet
as your dreaming body.

That would be enough.
God—
that would be everything.

There:

in that imagined room,
in that borrowed closeness,

I am unafraid.

My demons do not follow.
My doubts cannot cross the threshold.

There is only the heat of being known,
the slow unraveling of all I pretend to be,
the dangerous relief
of becoming myself
in the presence of you.

Amber-eyed,
ocean-removed,
twelve hundred leagues of absence
and still

you are nearer to me
than my own hands.

What is this place
we make
without touching?

What is this fire
that asks nothing
and takes everything?

I live there
in the thought of you,
in the shape of your name
inside my mouth,
in the quiet confession
of wanting.

And one day—

if the world is merciful,
or cruel enough

here and there
will collapse into one,

and I will stand beside you
with nothing left to lose,

and say, at last,

not as metaphor,
not as longing—

but as truth:

*I am home.*