you smell like home,
i whisper, drinking it in
my face buried against his shirt

but home isn’t with him,
not today, not yet, but soon
i know and i’m homesick just the same

and the drive home is dark, long
and wet with my silly tears
because driving home just feels wrong

it just doesn’t feel right anymore –
him there, me here…
my heart left behind with him

and i’m counting 1-2-3…
so many days till home is with him

one-hundred-and-thirty more:
goodbyes, goodnights over the phone
and waking-up-in-the-mornings-alone

it will go by fast, they say
and it has already, i know
but it feels slow just the same

for home is where the heart is
and so home must be where mine is
apart from me, with him