To My Dearest: Returning

To My Dearest,

Home,
Home is a stranger.
And I miss it so.
Not the bricks and mortar, but the walls your arms and embrace form around me. And the warm hearth of a heart you bear, is an antidote to my yearn.

Every bell ringing singing your name, every light dulls by your smile.
Soon our chance will come.
I can see the candyfloss-plume breaths from our cracked lips. Our hands locked in cotton and each other’s clasps. Noses red and cheeks flushed, of cold or happiness, who knows? Both, more than likely.
Perhaps it will snow, and we will be treated to that ethereal quiet that only comes with blankets of white. No greater reason to remain inside.

We’ll find our time of peace, as our aching hearts can relax, no longer out of earshot of their beats. Or at least, only a few moments from my weary eyes, as opposed to the many moments that bloat between us now.

I cannot say these letters are always easy to write. Sometimes the words refuse to come, almost indignant that this must be the only way they find themselves to you.
And this letter much the same, as the words were too excited to sort themselves for me.

So, I will simply say,
I’m on my way home, with all my love,
My Dearest

A poem by Colm Horgan