Lag

Land in familiar corridors and still be surprised at the language that echoes through them. Everyone looks like you, but more brown, more blonde, more raised in the woods. Walk familiar hills, ride familiar trains, everything is like home only duller: you’ve made this trip too many times without  adding anything to it, who do you think you are. She says she’s writing to plead for second chances (or third, or fifth, but a leap of faith for sure), and you love a grand romantic gesture but wonder what his heart tells itself at night. You unpack your suitcase and repack it again in a different shape: there is no standing still. The late night is still light outside the open windows. You know exactly where you are.

It doesn’t mean you’re not lost as hell.