My ears keep popping every time I swallow.
There are rolling green hills with tiny winding backroads,
Small houses dotting the land like the freckles on your face.
There is fog, slowly swimming through the trees.
The blue mountains on the horizon are calling my name.
I think I am home.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 8:07 PM UTC
My ears keep popping every time I swallow.
There are rolling green hills with tiny winding backroads,
Small houses dotting the land like the freckles on your face.
There is fog, slowly swimming through the trees.
The blue mountains on the horizon are calling my name.
I think I am home.
