Sometimes I'm not home
But I remain sat, snug between it's walls.
Sometimes I'm home,
Existing only as a body,
A spent bullet shell...
Empty, warped and scratched gold.
All of the time I'm at home,
Physically.
Yet, the wind traces it's fingers through my hair
Sending;
Shivers down my spine,
Sending;
My gaze to stars...
Peeking between cracks in the roof,
Sending;
My heart to a parallel beat...
And I am not there.