And I'm Home

White dress, flowers in her hair, the rain holds off until it becomes merely a fun story for later years, you see lightning in the clouds over Tuscan mountains when everyone else is sleeping. There is food, and wine, and stories of days Before.

Later, when the stone house is quiet, the night black, you lie awake counting mosquitoes and trying to make sense of a life that will not be made sense of. Only a few hours remain until the party begins again, you treasure the moments of solitude when you may digest. And so, perhaps, it goes for life. You'll stitch the pieces together in time.

Your own.

Under the Tuscan Sun

The day revolves in sunshine. Sit on a rock and watch the Mediterranean rage, it soothes you. Practice speeches in the mirror, as your shoulders turn brown with summer. A language slowly builds on your tongue; home is thousands of miles away (literally too). This room alone must be bigger than how you live normally, she says and she isn't wrong. The closet space alone is daunting. 

I could walk for hours with this cool, soft grass underneath my bare feet. My heart beats so loudly in my chest on this hard bed. I don't know yet what it means. 

Perhaps it's nothing at all. 

Leaning

Another night of upturned lag, you nap in the short space where it's dark outside then twiddle your thumbs until it's time to go. Walk through a quiet capital in the middle of the night but it's already dawn, the boats lie still in the water but how light it is. Sit on a sleeping bus as the sun rises over a town that was always beautiful in summer, always beautiful in the hours when you didn't need share it. The flight is late but you arrive to familiar faces behind the ropes, what treasure. Rearrange your languages but it all comes up French, there's an old castle at the edge of town where you live now, at night the whole place creaks and you know something is haunted. You're certain the ghosts will be friendly.

A wind blows through the magnolias, sweeps little clouds across the crescent moon. You haven't slept in days. Will the Tuscan night to whispers secrets into your dreams. Pray this will still be real, tomorrow.

Elsewhere

Arrive in the early morning, air is cool but the first commuters are already on their way; you squeeze your big bag and unseasonable tan into their unwelcoming gazes. There's not enough warm clothes in that suitcase. Tumble around in jet lag and get confused by midnight sun, repack your bags into impossibly small proportions and set the alarm. Three hours if you fall asleep now, but you will not. I ran along the water this morning but nothing made sense. The flowers are beautiful, the still air, the city you once knew.


It no longer knows you.

You're not sure what to tell it.

Rainbow Bright

Check off the to-do list, one last run along the river and throw out the milk before it goes bad in your absence. I drag perpetually heavy bags into the underground and squeeze into a crowded subway car, my cheek leaning awkwardly against the glittery arm of a drag queen. We get off the train at the same spot in the west village, the rainbow flags all emerging above ground and me schlepping the bags to another train northward. I get in late and run through the tunnels, arrive sweating on a train that races into the countryside, all moody clouds and waving reeds. I stare at the skyline and try not to cry. It's a day for joy and celebration, for love and confetti, for the great freedom of a new horizon but I feel none of that.

Beautiful days only remind me I miss you. The forecast says rain everywhere I'm going now. I am grateful for the reprieve.

If only I had packed a jacket.

Brooklyn Inn

A flight is canceled, they come back in tatters but at least you get a few more hours in their company. It's a strange sort of existence. You try to teach his young eyes about Washington Square Park squirrels and the magic underneath his feet; he practices high fives with unknown hands. It is the same thing. Later, along that polished dark wood, try to read the palms of a stranger, see how their old eyes fit into yours. You're not sure you're wearing the right glasses.

The summer evening is perfect, I took too many pills today I know but everything is falling apart at the seams and I don't have time just now. I check in online. Choose a window seat near the very back. If you hold on for just a little longer none of this will mean anything. Set the alarms. Take me home or take me anywhere.

At the Same Time, I Don't

It's fine, it's fine, a belly full of snakes, it's fine, don't forget [how] to breathe. Just a few months ago you lived on a tour bus and didn't know fear. It's easy to forget your highs when you keep getting shoved into the lows. Fill the hours with mindless input until a friendly face appears at your side and calms your fevered forehead for a while. You still go to bed with ghouls, the cool air of the machine at your pillow does nothing to dissuade them. I keep waking at dawn, unable to sleep. If I were across the sea now the sun would never set and we'd sing that inevitable melancholy as we do.

The chaos of the room leaves way for a gentle exodus. Erase your scent from this space. Let someone else tear through it for a bit. You can only be cut so many times before your blood gives up the will to coagulate. My suitcase fills up. My hair is being pulled by the stars again.