I came close to sight of a place once called Home.
I know in the crevices, our hearts beat together.
    In the grass where we rolled,
    in the trees where we climbed,
    on the roads that we walked,
            and, once, made art upon,
    in the water we ran through,
        and swam in,
             and, once, dunked each other into, and, once, poured over each other,
    on the coach where we laid,
        whispering solacing words to keep ourselves refreshed,
    In the kitchen where you worked hard to accomplish and I worked hard to distract,
    on the floor where we rested at the edge of a day,
    In the snow which we absorbed through cotton clothing and malleable minds,
    Through the flowers where we ran, skipped, and took a few resplendent bluets or chaste anemones,
   Yes - Even under the blankets where our love echoed
                                                the sheets and reverberated back to
            ourselves in a transient moment,
    By the fire we would build before a cool summer night (which we then gazed at the heavens above)
        but, under the clouds we watched and the stars we mapped.
In these crevices our hearts beat.
That is why, as you can see, our hearts beat poorly now:
        They still beat in all of those crevices.
And as I got closer and closer to approaching your house, sitting next to a driver who looked upon me realizing (but probably not understanding why) that I was in a mental breakdown,
and I whispered love words to you through a foggy glass window,
A panic knocked the air from my lungs and a fear knocked me flat on my back,
        -until, that is, we turned opposing roads and retreated back,
                    my tail beneath my leg.
And now that my chance is gone, I long to see home again.
So, and it is, so my heart can feel at ease and rest once more.
        My dearest desire, my rambunctious "Fish"
                    (If you recall that story)
Does your heart still beat alongside mine?
    Are the tears that stain your face, dripping onto the floor, forming just as quick as mine?
           Are the hours passing as slowly for you as for me?

Do you miss home?