baby come home, i miss the sound of the doorhome. that's what we called it, because we belong together: in a comfortable bed, in the comfortable confines of the folds of each other's longings. this somewhere, anywhere, here. we built it, are building it, with every three-word affection and late-night phone call; every kiss and every tearful goodbye: the elements of us, of we, of who we are and who we are becoming. our bed at the end of an epic poem.
your step on the stair's not there to wake me no more
and every day's like christmas day without you
it's cold and there's nothing to do
and it's mighty quiet here now that you're gone
i've been behaving myself for too long
'cause i don't like sleeping
or painting the town on my own
so please
come on home...
-- everything but the girl
-- michelle tea, the chelsea whistle
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