by Nikhita Dodla
I dream of the falling colors,
But I am trapped by the monochrome white outside my window.
Is a house really a home?
I work away,
My fingers flying across the keyboard,
Eyes adamantly refusing to look at my surroundings.
For if I do, I will realize that a house may not be a home.
I reluctantly finish,
And pack up all too quickly.
Is it loyalty if you have nowhere else to go?
If so, let my house be my home.