i dont want to think about home anymore.
at some point almost everything i own is unfamiliar to me, i need the warmth to come back to my belly to remind me why i like to wear the things hanging in my closet. the jars in the refrigerator clink when i close the door to state their existence.
my palms touched the back of your head somewhere in the middle of texas, it wasn't even night time but i couldn't see anything past your patterned shirt. this is visceral, this is sand on my skin that i can't get off, this is owning up to something, this is disappointing you.