Anew

The apartment lies silent, spotless. I daren't so much as move, for fear of disturbing the impeccable cleanliness, for ruining the priceless moment of a brand new start. May settles in my chest, and I dare to see an entire summer stretch for miles ahead; perhaps there will be more sun, yet. Two years ago I came to this city--it was such a warm summer that year, so beautiful--and the streets were so crooked, it hurt just to breathe. Two years later, and I have plants on the windowsills, I have family tucked away on the islands. Two years later and, on cue, my bags await their time to be packed.

Are you even capable of having a home? he asks, and I know the question is honest. Well-rehearsed answers make their way into the ether, but the truth is I am as homeless now as I was at 16 and it begins to dawn on me that this is my life. I feel as at home in an airport as I do behind this door that doesn't even have my name on it. I convince myself that one more leap will scratch the itch out for good, but everyone knows it's a joke and I'm forever chasing rainbows. I spent the weekend alone but hallucinated moving shadows in the corner of my eye. Nothing was there when I turned.

Your face came on the screen today, your voice, it all felt the same. The stubborn pieces of times past jabbed at my insides until memories flooded back and filled every resting cavity. There was a time I believed we could walk the same road. But you merely left a ghost in the streets and they only ever run in circles.

My greatest fear is that I'm doing the very same.