Thanksgiving.

It is with great indecision that I offer these words, fragments of my soul that they are, to the reader, whomever that may be.

I often find myself creating my own definitions. It's along the lines of reality that I've become my own dictionary. This method rarely fails, but please don't waste our time missing the keywords.

Ache is an empty word. The feeling echoes through my memories, fragilely clinging to the present, desperately wanting a shot at the future.

It's the absence of... something.

Cliche at best, but- I have always been homesick. There was a time when I thought this was because I've never had a home.

(Mind you I'm speaking of the deepest form of the word, the home that in fact may exist only as a memory.
Don't let me cross the line. Memories are not dreams, yet dreams are memories.)

I'm home... but I'll always be a little homesick around the holidays. I'm sure it doesn't help that each year there seems to be one less life.

How incredibly selfish that sounds. Shouldn't I just be thankful that I'm home?

This is a little rough around the edges and I apologize, more to myself than to anyone else.

It's been months. The bleeding has subsided, without a band aid.



Love makes for some darn good stitches.