What Home Feels Like

Dearest,

I want you to be here with me,
Hear the church bells ring and feel the gentle, indecisive rain and,
I want you to be here with me, sitting on the rocky wall, just waiting, looking, not knowing what to do,
But here, with me.
And if there is such thing as greed then this is it,
And if there is such thing as love?
I know it well, for I know you well,
And with every passing day, although you are sadly there, without me, I love you still.
There will come a time for your own embankment, and then I will wish you well and send you off with tears and kisses and treat you like a child (justified for the last time),
And when you return I will hold you close and long and cry a little and smile, and be content.

I want you to be here with me, or even to be there with you, when it rains again  and the sky goes grey with mood and the ground gets bloated with droplets and all of this is irrelevant because there is one small drop clinging to the tip of your nose which is far more important than all the others.
And listening to the rustle of the meadow in spring, the flowers swaying to and fro and the birds singing gaily, is not so sweet as it is lonely when you are there and I am here.
And by that time we will know much more, so much of the uncertainty of today will have faded away, but one thing is sure, will still be sure: I will love you still with a fire in my chest and love you with every breath I take, and I will wish,
You were here with me.

xx,

F----