When you go to War, paint my face over your heart when you go out to battle so our enemy knows you have something worth living for --someone waiting at home for you. 

I ask this in hopes it catches on;

so your enemies become your friends when they see a familiar face painted across your proud chest. 

Come home to me. On your own two feet because if you came home shipped; surely, the strings of sorrow sewn by my heart would never saunter through the small eye of a needle. 

I wouldn't be able to run to your side, my eyes would never dance to meet yours- still open - giving direction to where you've gone. My fingers will no longer know the warmth of your skin. Just the cold wallpaper lain across a house of muscle and bones.

Come home to me, so I don't have to go back alone. So my tears don't have to meet their pair at the tip of my chin. So my lips never have to wish to wander when your bleeding wounds once were. 

I can be your Penelope and you can be Odysseus as long as you'd like - just come home to me. Eyes still wide, lips spread and licked enough times to tell of your wounds and your worries. Our eyes melt into yes' and years and silent prayers in soft unison silence. 

Let my tears and the pads of my fingertips and lips erase the mural on your chest. For what is a copy when the original is in your grasp.