William Faulkner wrote: “How often have I lain beneath rain on a strange roof, thinking of home.” And I wonder how often I feel the same way.

The love I feel at home seems lost when I sleep away. And I keep looking for it somewhere else. But home is still home. Nothing will match it.

The rain returns and I feel like a stranger again. But I keep fighting. I deserve to find other sources of love.

I still miss home. I miss home every day.

I kiss a stranger’s lips and I am sent further away.

I look at a stranger and I am set further apart.

Simple gestures take my essence clean from my bare hands. How can I stop this?

I miss home so damn much. But I feel like I am losing it.

The rain keeps falling, merciless. I try to sleep but I keep tossing and turning. I can’t rest at all. Can one die from missing home?

I miss the greenery. I miss our dog. I miss the blue sky. I miss our home.

Does the rain ever stop falling?

I fall asleep after hours wide awake. Will things ever change?

My eyes won’t open until dawn. I sleep and I dream.

I dream of home.

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