There’s always powdered milk on the table when I go home,
Soup crackers and rye bread for porridge.
It isn’t my home–
There’s always an empty room for visitors to sleep,
But there’s never much room for me.
I packed my things last night to runaway,
I locked the door and threw my key threw the window,
I left no note or explanation, then took a bus to the lake.
Before realizing I have nowhere to go,
No visitor’s room to sleep in,
Just a bunch of empty cities to live in for a short while.
I spent the night trying to unlock the door,
And I went to sleep homesick.