Some things fade.
They feel like my dreams, like each corner I turn is unfamiliar.
“I know this place.” I say to myself.
But sometimes, time is a lead pencil with a cheap eraser.
Places leave us, as we leave them. My heart bursts from all its creases, and at times, it still finds a way to save itself from ruin. If you’re still here, your heart is the same way — the same as mine.
I sat at a table and saw your ghosts. How you used to drink your coffee. I saw where I buried my pain and where I discovered my greatest joy. Yes it was in between walls but it was also in those creases of my heart.
It was where I discovered the truths of humanity shared — that people are the truest way to presentness.
That is rich. Like dark chocolate and butter and heavy cream — drizzled and smoothed over something that is already just too much.
I was heart sick for so much. To connect. To discover again. But mostly, to be back home where it is becoming more and more evident that my world exists in a tiny corner, of a tiny city in a state no one understands.
I find whatever all of this is, to be the sum of its parts. Maybe this is the beautiful stuff I will think about when I’m dying — when I’m wondering how life moved so quickly and how I became so stiff and filled with old memory.
What a story, I already claim. To have loved greatly and given so much of my heart — to know what it is like to watch it shatter and gather it, along with all the other broken things. I get to sit around with these people and watch them eat things I cook.
I get to watch them grow older with their person and I get to see their babies get peanut butter stuck in their hair or blow kisses to me as I say goodbye.
Your heart is the same as mine. Blubbering and wonderful. Our heavily flawed muscle.
You may not remember where the streets go, or what they turn into.
But I can tell you that it’s not forever lost.
And you are forever, a ghost, a place at my table
— a love with the heart that is the same as mine.