they didn't warn me i'd be homesick for you

When you’re a child, they warn you of the homesick flu

With tales of their own ill summers away

And you worry that you’ll catch it,

The disease that won’t let you leave

The places and people you call home.

But my bedroom holds her breath while I’m away,

Falls asleep and freezes,

Not daring to move a muscle,

Promising to wait

Exactly how I left her.

Every concert ticket from the House of Blues still clings to its spot on the bulletin board,

Yellowing and curling at the corners.

Every birthday card, name tag, crumbling flower,

Every journal page written in a script I no longer recognize as my own

Has its place — as do I,

On the loveseat by the window,

On the plastic chair that darkens

The bruises on my back as I sew myself to sleep,

Under the covers that hold the darkest secrets

Of sleepovers on school nights and boys I shouldn’t have kissed,

I can always return —

Throw my key on the nightstand,

Slip into an old sweater,

Turn up the iPod,

Turn back the clocks.

But most rooms and houses and cities move on,

Growing up as we do, erasing our footprints.

And that’s a tougher pill to swallow

And a harsher illness to endure —

To be homesick for a place that isn’t yours.