Hiraeth

What would you call the feeling of wanting to go back to a place that was never really yours to begin with?
How would you verbalise this nostalgia, a feeling so familiar that it sits at the tip of your tongue ready to spring out if spoken into existence 
But instantly forgotten like tendrils of smoke unfurling 
In a December breeze. 
I have come to the conclusion that my mouth must be a graveyard the way
Certain words seem to die in my throat
Unable to push their way past the cemeteries of my tombstone teeth
Words like "I love you"
Words like "Please don't leave me"
Words like "I'm so lonely it hurts"
I have come to the conclusion that my body must be holy ground
The way even ghosts refuse to haunt me I am 
Pioneering the art 
of Losing Myself In A Room Full Of People I Know and I am silently 
Watching myself go under, the path of least resistance is sometimes the hardest one to take when all you have known
Is fight
To be yourself
To be heard
To be allowed to exist what a strange game of cat and mouse we play. 
Every time I come back to a city I call home I watch twinkling lights race to welcome me back as gravity takes a hold of the ground beneath my wings and
Every time I come back to this body I call home I feel the weight of a thousand yesterdays fog over me
Welcome me back to a landscape I have known
And tried my hardest to forget. 
It is a peculiar sort of homecoming indeed.