Waiting For You To Come Home
You are a stain I don't want to paint over, or wash out, or ever get rid of, even when my mother offers to do it for me. I just tell her that I'll get around to doing it eventually, but we both know I never will.
“I used to build homes out of people. I sought safety in their arms and when they left, like most people do, I felt homesick for a place that no longer exists. But, I have learned to stop finding shelter in other people and built my own. They are now just a stain on the wall, an uninvited guest and I am no longer an open door that is waiting for them to come home.”
That is what I wrote on my blog almost a year after you left (without a word, without closure, without even a sign that you were leaving me behind) and though I thought it to be true at the time, I know now that it is a lie.
You are a stain I don’t want to paint over, or wash out, or ever get rid of, even when my mother offers to do it for me. I just tell her that I’ll get around to doing it eventually, but we both know I never will.
In refusing to doing so, I let myself hold onto the idea of you for a little while longer, even though you found it incredibly easy to let go of me. Forgive me if I cannot do the same. So, I’ll keep stains on the wall and dusted photo frames and shirts that no longer smell like you because holding onto the idea of you doesn’t hurt as much as trying to let go of you entirely does.
It’s just that, you never said goodbye, and maybe that is why there are some nights where I wait for you by the door or expect every call to be from you, because you never said goodbye, I’m still waiting for another hello.
I’m still waiting for you to come home. 
