I’ll dream of the place I once called home and my heart will continue to break into thousands of tiny, irreparable pieces. And I will be okay with this, I will have to be okay with this.
Age will creep through this town like a thick fog swallowing the towns insides and it will soon be nothing of my memory.
Sometimes it’s not so bad forgetting. It means you’re living, you’re moving on. Letting certain names, and faces, and places go makes more room for things more consistent. Or perhaps not consistent, but new. Sometimes I find myself starving for the inconsistency of you. They say home is where the heart is; well, you hold mine in your back pocket. So home is where ever you are. My heart begs for a beat, some certainty of life. But you couldn’t even give me that, could you?
How do I get back home from here? To the place I once knew? My compass points south bound, to you. And I trace this map back to your doorstep. But my failing feet refuse to trail the seemingly endless trail.
You have something of mine, and I’m ready to take it back. My eyes have finally adjusted to the darkness and I’m ready to fight. You can keep home, but I’m taking my life back.