I came back home last week, big greyhound bus and a backpack full of clothes. That bus rode in on Main Street, that old coffee shop was closed.
I walked across the park and stop by that old oak tree, the one where we carved our initials and climbed on – its still standing tall, our initials are hard to read but still able to see.

There were some kids playing tag and that tree was the safety base…if they only knew the things we did together up above or down below…I can still feel your embrace…
Its been such a long, long time since we walked hand in hand, do you remember?
Does it mean as much to you as it does to me?
Its a strange, strange story – how time just rumbles past us and we find ourselves alone despite the crowds of people.
Its a strange but comforting feeling knowing that the tree is still there. Sort of a confirmation that we did live the life I remember and its not just another story.
That we were together, long nights and my feelings are true and not some made up memory.
I find myself falling at times for the same old lines, the same old attractions, her scent, her voice, lips and touch…but then I remember that she is not you and its just a temporary glimpse into what can never be…
I came back home the other day but its not home anymore…my family is gone, moved on to another town in another city. Tom, Sue and Billy are gone as well to another town in another city.
I walked around and hoped that magically I would catch a glimpse of you again…but all I saw were the smoking ravages of a heart dragged on the road – skid marks of blood and love wasted…
Home is not home.
Home I have no home.
I am alone…sweaty air choking me and I dream of you holding me.
Home I have none.
Home is a place I call where I don’t feel so scared and alone. With apron string love and the scent of something in the oven.
Got on the 11pm bus back to New York City…as we pulled away I saw that old oak tree and I could swear I saw you waving to me…