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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…
one-hundred-and-thirty
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