Dreaming of
the place where my
heart rests
so comfortably.
Wondering why we leave
a piece of ourselves
somewhere where we know
we'll miss it
only to return
and realize why we had.

More than just shelter
it was a comfort,
and joy,
and sadness,
and blues.
But more than that
it was just you --
all those that came,
and went,
but stayed true
and always made
an effort to visit
the place where a piece
of their heart lie.

And countless memories,
(it's not over yet)
and each string
attached to every vivid
moment, shared
a simple melody, 
somewhere,
recollecting,
surging all emotion
back to me.
Back to my
'special' places.
8 simple melodies.
So now I can go
anywhere
and just hum a tune
to recall all
when I am homesick.

A sickness
that only has one treatment
but never a cure,
so long as you never leave.
A weakening state
that makes even
Atlas himself
cry in pain from
the realization of 
the Great gravities of
a sentient Sphere upon
his shoulders.

But I don't worry,
because I know that 
if all material
were but fanciful illusion--
I'd still have Home.
Invisible, but most felt.
Perhaps more strongly so?

Dreaming of a place
where we leave a piece
of ourselves only to miss it
when we're gone,
only to return and realize
why we had
been homesick
at all.

And then I call you.

Mother.