it’s funny, because last time i wrote,
i said i didn’t love my home.
yet here i am, writing away,
filled with the loneliness for home that i’ve
never yet felt.
maybe it’s that i know i’m gone long,
or that i won’t be able to see the things with which
i’m most familiar,
or be able to pet my dogs and take a long shower
and curl into the covers in my cold room.
but it’s hot here, in rooms without ac.
and it’s lonely. in a week, no one has hugged me.
(and you don’t think about how much you need hugs
until you haven’t had one in a while and
your body feels cold and empty and dirty
and lonelier than even your heart)
and there aren’t dogs here, no sight of my family
worrying about me, and my happiness,
from nearly 2000 miles away.
and maybe that’s not far.
and maybe 3 weeks isn’t that long.
but if i’m missing a place that i’ve talked about disliking,
then clearly something is off.
when i went shopping the other day,
i saw a book about home
and burst into tears in the middle
of the store.
and while i certainly wish that
i could enjoy myself while here,
wanting to be home is something
i wish far more.