Plague Prosaic

20

I am my own home,

And it should be that way – constantly

And then you came

You were a reflection of me,

A mirror to my soul,

So real, that I could leave the home that I've built my whole life

So real, that I could burn old leaves that could be traces for me to find my way back

So tricky, that I thought you could be a home too,

My home

Well, I was wrong

So where do I go now?

How do I go home?