Homesick.

Wheel meets tarmac.

I have traveled miles to return here, I have born backache and heartache and my mother tongue hangs heavy, wags slowly, wraps around the names of places and people I called home; a car hugging a mountainside.

I have been plucked from the air but my stomach drops, drops, drops –

Is it sinking or is it falling when it takes two years to hit blue stone rock bottom?

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