The rain lingers, cools the air to a chill, hampers your forward motion and you don't know which direction to aim it now. Work simmers around you like an ocean full of crabs, you are reluctant to go in even though you know you can swim once you commit. The itch to write reappears along the inside of your skin, all it took was a whiff of smelling salts to emerge from its hibernation, all it needed was one long evening with no sunset. She packs her bags, prepares arrival. You cannot step in the same river twice, and this town has molted a thousand times since last she saw it, but no matter.
The butterfly always carries a part of its caterpillar life into its new reality, despite the metamorphosis, despite the turned page and new eyes.
Even when nothing about it looks the same,
it turns out,
the memories remain.
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