I can’t write poetry. My brain is slightly addled by codeine as the pain was lingering long today. I’ve tried to assemble my thoughts but they keep running away. I am thinking of home, and how this was my home, my childhood home. Visiting is comfortable, like wearing old familiar clothes. Though things have changed round here, it’s somehow still the same, despite the extra houses and rearranged roads. I am sat here, comfortable, but my heart is elsewhere. A thread stretches out from here to there, where you are, and though I’m comfortable I feel its tug pulling at me. It’s just been a few days, but I miss you. Home is where you are. So I’ll enjoy the comfortable feeling here and the time spent with family, knowing soon I’ll be home with you. I’ll return to our little village, back from the big city, reaquaint myself with the frogs in the pond and the insects in the tall grass. And catch up with missed kisses and hold on tight.