she begged through her eyes,
her ebony-tinted, beseeching eyes,
with a silence that spoke a thousand words,
and a riddle that tattled,
“I am homesick.”
but those eyes were not homesick,
for a hazy, crackling fire,
or a sickly, slightly bitter hot of cocoa,
or a scratchy woollen blanket to lie on.
those murky, wrinkled eyes,
were homesick for someone.
and as that silence spoke again,
with another tale that rattled,
“If your arms around me are like home,
then consider me homesick,
and render yourself a runaway.”