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I am homesick for a place that is not home and has not been.
A place of memories that I wanted to have
of happiness, love and family.

A birds nest perhaps,
wrapped in yellowed lace, caressed by cobwebs,
hidden amongst sepia prints and lavender buds.

In such a place, I would wear Wedgewood blue, with a gray velvet ribbon about my throat.
I would sing you old songs and we would dance in our bare feet.

I would set a table with silver and candles, spiced pear wine and apple stack cake.
The fireflies would be our floor show, the crickets our bright symphony.

Ah home. Will you ever be more than stars' breath and ash?


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