Filled with home — felt at home — finding home.

I have been filled to the brim. In the very deepest parts of me — where the heartstring connects to the intuition — I feel nearly waterlogged.
How do I know if this is good, I could never be thirsty again, being full the way I am. Or is the damning, as I can never run again, being full the way I am.
My feet drag as I look towards home. I have never been there before but I will make it soon. When I see it, will I know it belongs to me the way no place has yet? When I touch it, will it feel safe. Will I be finally in the place where alone is ok, where accompanied is ok, where I become part of the daily scenery?
When I leave there — even just for a little while — will I leave behind a cord that connects to my heart and intuition and pulls me back when I am far?
When I leave there — forever — will I leave behind a bit of me that leaves the next to dwell there wondering who it could be that left her laughter in the air?
When I come back will I be coming back home?
Or will I be coming back to another site my gypsy soul wandered over in this life she has been granted.
And is my real home still ahead.

The worst part is (and the best part is)
I’ve been homesick
I’ve been home sick,
I’ve been home.

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