Gothenburg, Revisited

Last night with a suitcase rolling behind us as we made our way through the city, waving our hellos at every street corner, how comforting the little city seemed. Later, at the bar, he told me he had lived in a total of three places in his 31 years and I could do naught but stare at him wide-eyed. My little black book of addresses inhabited has become too scribbled in to count, any more. Tonight I walked home through our old courtyard, and I swear the grass there is greener now. It was so quiet, eerie. I knew it so well but it is not mine, anymore.

We spent the day by the sea, and wasn't it a little warmer, didn't the sun shine a little brighter? I came home with the slightest tingle of salt sprinkled on my skin, reveled in running water, showered so long I nearly forgot my appointments.

The night ran long; our conversation refused to end. We sat in the courtyard, rolling countless cigarettes, and at every turn in the stories, my eyes filled with tears. Such is life, when you put words to it. I walked home with the same music in my ears, but the streets were entirely different. So dark, so empty, and yet endlessly familiar. These streets which were my streets, this city that was my home. I think perhaps it's a different place entirely.

I suspect I am not the same, myself.