Kedar Karkare, PhD

My heart lives in Kansas City,

though the rest of me is scattered

Like a ghost on borrowed highways,

Driving towards a home

I know I’ll never find.

It wasn’t the skyline that held me,

not the fountains or the jazz,

but something quieter—

your laughter in a kitchen light,

a porch in November,

the way the wind said your name

without speaking it.

Grief built its home here—

not loud,

not sudden—

but slow,

like dusk bleeding through old curtains,

like coffee going cold in your favorite cup.

Loss has a flavor here:

smoke and sugar,

bittersweet burnt ends,

and stories half-finished.

The city does not ask why

When I return

It just holds me—

stone and steam and sky—

and says, belong anyway.

My heart lives in Kansas City.

And when I’m here

I remember

What love cost,

and what it gave me

before I left.