You arrive in the last town you called home on a sunny Sunday afternoon, roll into the central station flags waving and stately buildings on parade. You forget yourself.
The subways are the same as before, a muscle memory sits in your spine, sputtering back into action and almost remembering. You ride the bus past the house of a man you once thought you might care for. Nothing stirs. In the late evening, you go back to the dock for another swim, nothing else has ever mattered, the sun doesn’t set over Stockholm because it is summer yet, because it is alive yet, you wonder if you could live here when November comes but the question is irrelevant. He stays longer than intended. When your heart is heavy, you return to those who love even your darkest corners.
In the morning, I pack my swimsuit into a purse. You never know. It sounds like a metaphor,
but maybe it’s just an itch to scratch.
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