I'm in your kitchen and we are ten years older than we were before and yet entirely the same women. Months ago when I was in the place, when I couldn't see straight, you invited me south. You said, come here and I'll heal you. And so I came. I sold everything I owned and drove south through desert heat, and windows down, and warm water, and sweat on my breast bone until I got here– gutted and at your front door.
I've been listening lately to others talk a lot, how they get closer to who they want to be. How we all get further most of the time. Once I am alone I get it more than before. You sit in the doorway at night and argue with an old lover and I think about how much more I should say out loud. How good that must feel, to kick and rage.
Before I left we listened to love songs late in the morning and I cried, not because I was leaving, but because I knew I wasn't ever coming back this time. Although, I still don't know where to go from here.