The only diagnosis that came to mind was “homesick,” though my head knew I laid in my own bed. My bed, a ravenous beast, swallowing myself and my depression whole. I thought it might be morning, but with the blankets pulled up over my head it was hard to be certain. Sleep would not come, but I did still dream. Your voice tip toeing around inside me. My eyes closed, but me, tripping around behind you. And I could never catch you. My skin aching for your skin. A sunburn crawling across my body, throbbing and slow. And your voice, deep and taunting. And I thought for a moment that maybe you were home. And then I remembered about how I didn’t care. And then I continued to trace the map you tracked across my mind. Searching for your voice. And never making it home.