I file this poem under a collection of work in which I would regard as being attributed to mature love, or as mature as I have ever known. Because how mature can a love be if it degrades all the light you ever saw in the world within one measly goodbye and leaves, taking the last whimsical five years of my adolescence with it. Said collection of work is a manifestation of my heartache, some of the words deeper than I would ever like to reveal and some of it a depicting a terribly clichéd teen romance - I have placed "Home" steadily on the middle of the spectrum. I would like to say that when I wrote this all the sadness simply tumbled out of me, but that would be a lie. However, what I do want to portray is the way in which writing poems like this nurse me back to my former self a little more every day. The love affair I have with language will never leave me.