Give me some time

You came back from home with loads of stories. Some of them told so sweetly, I felt like I was there. And only when I opened my eyes, I realised I was eating a semi cold pasta, never properly cooked, in the Tavistock canteen.
England...I got used to many of your habits. I got used to the summer rain, the cold and dark winter, the smell of beer in any street with a nearby pub, the pollen covering the dusty roads and getting in my nostrils, making me sneeze like crazy from late March til the beginning of June. I also got used to your rush showers, the unbearable heat in the metro in the sticky July afternoons, the sour tea without sugar, the sweetness of your lovely strawberries covered in your heavenly honey, the colour of the sky in your beautiful sunsets, removing the batter from the deep fried, almost artificial cod, accompanied with chunky chips....I got used to the silence bells, the noisy sirens of ambulances and police cars, the annoying visitors and their annoying queues and cameras (...). I love your green. It makes me feel at home. You know that.
But I did not get used to this: Learning to miss you. It breaks my heart to think in going back or going there, to a new unknown. You broke my heart from the first moment we met. You made me see home from your soil, attaching me to you, dividing my soul and thoughts, tearing me apart inside while all I was, was happy to be with you.
But you slowly built this dependence clenching to my early naive Independence. I've unconsciously got addicted to you. You are a skillful lover. I told you that many times before, but I never thought that one day I would come to understand my own words.
And yesterday he came telling me about the Spanish siestas, the family gatherings, the Atlantic breeze (..) he called me home with his words, painfully sweet, and I could feel you holding on to me, shaking when you heard me cursing your possession of my routine, of my life. I am sure I did not mean it, but I must say it loud, so i don't get to used to all the things I am not sure if I can't live without.
How do I carry you? Do I put some of your earth in my pockets, and I keep on walking, never looking back, as Allende's character did when she crossed the Andes?
Why can't you come? Don't you see am I tired? Don't you see I need to go?
Home is wherever your heart is...I cannot ask my crazy heart, always looking, never satisfied, but still so romantic. For sure he would tell me the world, though we both know he's lying. We both now there is space for more, even if you two took it almost all.
I keep on dreaming. You still give me that. You are that land I always imagined while sitting by the side of the river. You were indeed across the mountains. SO different, so beautiful, so mine.
And after all, I still wanna keep on searching. After knowing this might be it, but having an obscure certainty that it's not.
So what now? You must give me some time. Since you are immortal, you must have some.