The ache is deep. I'll carry it far.
As my feet walk in reverse, hoping for a glimpse of what was lost.

Why do we ever turn our backs to the warmth?
Why do we face the chill of the unknown?

A thirsty man must drink, and yet I abstain.
Slowed as I am by the driving rain.

Home becomes legend, becomes myth, half-believed.
Becomes a story. A fire behind glass, a vision; mirage.

If desire requires lack, then perhaps home feels best
with the miles on my back.

As I walk I wonder if the sound of water
is better than the taste of home.