There was a time when your arms were my home.
The length of your biceps were the halls I once walked and the crook of your elbow the place I once laid my head at night.
The scar from the time you fell from the mango tree, three inches above your right wrist, was the portrait that hung above my bed.
There was a time the fluttering of your eyelids were the opening of the golden tapestries that hung above the windows of my soul.
Your very essence the blue prints to the yard where my lavender and forget-me-not once grew.
There was a time your words and your promises were my prayers.
The sound of you breathing at night was my pulse.
Your "I love you's," once my "Amen's," are now a strange language spoken in twisted and heavy tongues with forced vowels and foreign consonants.
Spoken by the concierge in a lovely resort I would love to call mine, I am but a visitor in a place I once called home.