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In the silence of my empty home
Teardrops fall, with no echo
salty flumes were barely shone
and we all move, with no shadow

In the stillness of my own home
There is no presence, but I, alone
the air is chilling, to the bone
and in my bed, I pray for home

In the bosom of my own home
you are missing, from this room
the scent is feint, but your cologne
lingers while you've gone to roam

For in my bosom is my home
and in my home, I alone
sit, and wait, for you to come
home, to me, my only one.
A poem written in December of 2011
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September 2, 2013
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