If you lived here, you'd be home by now.

It's either this, or it's that. But never both together.
And you brush aside your thoughtful mind, your held tongue, and carry across the threshold of this place  - some kind if secret wanting.
I remember breakfast coming too late in the day to really be called breakfast, but we did it anyways. And sometime between the waffles and the omletes we came to a silent agreement that this would be the end of us and the start of me.
I broke bread and shared a few too many pieces with the strangers who guided me back to this home. To this place. To that. And thanked then as candidly as I could without seeming too desperate for their approval.
But you disappeared again, in the smoke. In the flame. And I still have trouble finding any part inside of me to care whether you land on your feet or not.
It should go without saying - as I sit here breathing frost - that we remain in tact despite the threat of destruction.
It should go without saying. But I've gone and said it anyways.