it is as heavy as bruised thunderstorm, as worn out as a knitted blanket. it smothers, it drains, it craves something melodic, soothing, carrying. it is a lonely waft of steam over a hasty cup of tea. it is a dirty sock, a mound of freshly baked abandoned laundry. it is a ghost perpetually winking… Continue reading homesickness defined
the rain-drenched writer. 