A week passes in buses and trains, in dragging your suitcase through a meandering landscape of nostalgia. Babies are born, children grow up, the cities where you once were young feel distant underneath your feet. Do you remember how big that hill was when we were kids? You remember everything.
But the distance doesn't ache in your chest like it used to do. The awkward tangle of how your limbs both fit and don't doesn't chafe like it once did, like it always did, like it cut slivers into your skin and you returned home bleeding in silence. Now you simply drink it in, rejoice in the late night conversations, the rainy day skinny dipping, the champagne soaked retreats with people who've known you in so many of the lives you've lived so far. You are all love and very little pain, is this what peace is? In the short silences just before you sleep, poetry whispers itself across your brow. You've been looking for answers in every corner of the world only to find that it makes itself within you.
You hold on tight to the idea. Tight like a baby bird. Tight like being soft takes more strength than the fighting you have left behind. You hold on like it's love.
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