i come from a home, a place, written in between the plains of somewhere hot, somewhere deep, and somewhere where the sun crowns itself as the conqueror of the heavens.

late afternoon shines onto the table, burning something sweet into the wood as i watch on, eyes searching for a cloud to lean on — a drop of water to kneel for. oh, how the summer knows my name in these moments; how i yearn for the cold and dank moments of winter — for just a moment of reprieve.

sometimes i see these memories in between the gilded skyscrapers of this always alight city, the image of glass searing into an otherwise pure skyline. passing by, people reflect others unknowingly, and i see my mother in the crowd, not even knowing herself.

in the sin of missing you, i watch myself in the mirror of these buildings, looking into those same eyes and wondering if i were ever there before?

as if it seems that home never existed, and that i was always here — simply misplaced and misguided. as if home were a past life, remembered in passing moments too small to look back upon.

now home is so far away, and now that i see the world a different way, i wonder if i were ever right in wanting more. there is that terrifying question of whether i should stay or go. who will i belong to after i forget you? the rituals we decided so long ago, i fear i cannot be apart of anymore.

but in the quieter moments, when i am alone, forced to face myself beneath the lights and colors of this always shining city, i remember. you are there with me, skimming at my lashes and at my cheeks, as i stare across a murky yet shining bay, wishing you were there with me.