I am Home

Why does the summer wind
come to me even in the rain
and whisper your thoughts loudly
as if I wouldn't listen to you
if you spoke them?

You aren't here, that's why.

I would say that I am lonely
but what difference would that have
from all other Mondays, Tuesdays,
Wedesdays, and Fridays—

—when you're here
but are always there
facing the East, where
I am supposed to be when
I am not behind you?

Have you gone?
Have I driven you so crazy
that no amount of petrol
can ever drive you back?

Have I driven you so far
that we can now find ourselves
at the same place that is never
in everyone's map?

Are you here?
Of course, you are.
Because here is, like home,
always where the heart is.

And you carry me with you
wherever it is you are;

I am here.
I am home.