Come Home.

I'm sick of it.
I wait at the window all day, just to see a glimpse of your face.
Or maybe the little crease that appers on the side of your mouth when you smile, or maybe the little freckle you have on your left cheek.
I'd sit on the bench we have near the window, from when I wake up in the morning, till when I think it's dark outside. When I can't make out the shadows anymore. I'd wait to the point I couldn't see anything.
I don't want to be waiting all my life.
Are you ever coming home?