See, the thing is, I didn’t know that home didn’t have to be a place until it was far too late. Until the doors of sickness opened and out spilled every evil this world has ever known. Until I felt suffering and had no means of fixing my broken pieces. I always knew that I loved you. Probably too much, too violently. I was young then. How is a child supposed to comprehend what love is let alone how to feel it? It’s one thing to tell your parents you love them but another completely to be able to understand its implications. It’s funny though. Poetic. You only know the value of something once it’s taken away. I couldn’t see you, so I craved you more than life itself. You were the light at the end of my endless tunnel; the beacon that would lead me to salvation. Of course, that’s not how things work. I tried and I tried to convince myself that I meant- that I mean- as much to you as you mean to me but, as is the way of this cruel planet, I wasn’t enough. You grew distant. Bored of me perhaps. I was too connected to your youth and yet your soul didn’t wail with the same perpetual agony each day we were apart as mine did. I’ve learnt to accept this now. It’s taken me years, but it’s ok. You don’t need to love me half as much as I loved you for me to know that at one point you were my home. So now, I’m leaving you behind. I need to move on and find a place that loves me more than you ever could. With you, I found something I would die for, but I’ve come to realise that I am much too readily willing to die than is widely considered acceptable- so, it is my hope, that one day, I will find something I want to live for. That’s the most I can offer.