I sit here in the kitchen surrounding by a multi-sensory experience of the verb home. I am adjacent to forks and knives, scents of Tim Perry's Curry Chicken Soup swirling in the air, Rachel Yamagata serenading me on how love never dies, and the reflection in our back window shows me that I am head deep in domesticity.
But what is a home when you are not here? I am adjacent to another set of forks and knives set in front of an empty chair, scents of your favorite Tim Perry's Curry Chicken Soup swirling through the air, notes from my favorite artist Rachel Yamagata serenading what is supposed to be us on how love never dies, and all the while the reflection in our back window shows me head deep in loneliness.
How empty I feel waiting for you to return to our humble abode.
Sing, Rachel:
"I want you
Or no one
No one else will do
You, or no one
No one is the only one
To fill the empty space I hold for you"
As Isaac Newton once did, I ponder F = mg.
One would think that I am describing an apple plummeting to earth, but I'm just describing how I fall for you.
