I think I’m here again – the place where I want to be somewhere else. When this feeling makes its routine visit, familiar like fingers walking on my arm, I find myself closing my eyes to everything that surrounds me. I find myself wanting to put my hands around warm cups of coffee intermittent with nibbling of dark coco perfection. I find myself dreaming of places that I’d slide in and hem the edges to fit into. I dream during the day of the images the internet displays and I am lost in myself like a woman picturing the life inside of her swollen belly.
But this time, it’s different.
I’m not looking up tickets for trips I won’t make. I’m not learning phrases in a languages I’ll never have to speak, and I’m not looking for occupations that I think I could successful hold in places foreign to me. This time, where I want to be isn’t as far as the mountains and it doesn’t call like the breeze from the open sea.
Where I want to be is so close, a place I get to visit but where I never get to stay. I want to be back to where I can breathe sun dried clothes and soap tinged with the still warm, the slight damp, the salty sticky of sweat hanging off of summer skin. I want my ears to fill with the kind of laughter that shows me the boy still alive in a man. I want closeness and intimacy like hands that know my face and the contours of my body. For once, I don’t want to run away and hide in the unknown, I want to mellow out and melt into familiarity and the comforts of knowing I’m home.