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It was April and she was the saddest thing under the sun.

Khush Bakht via wordedarchive

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Sitting in traffic

Commuter traffic

There’s a breeze

But it’s warm

The sun is just collapsing

And I am almost packed

I still have to put a few more things into my suitcase

Before the wheels touch this soil one last time

I pull my sweater closer to my chest

The wind picks up

I have an overwhelming urge to miss my flight

I almost do

I almost always, nearly do

But I know tomorrow cannot wait for me align my head and heart

So I must do it at the terminal

Or at the gate

Or even on the flight

Sacrifice sleep

Re-align myself

If I admire the characteristics that I have ended up with getting here I must admire the plight too

And the irony is it is never the arrival anywhere and always the journey somewhere

Before I know it, the captain announces the landing and I hold my breath

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Look at you

Cherishing temporary forevers in little corners of your heart

Comforting yourself like all the times you wish you had done before

But it’s a new beginning

Even if your heart is sad

You have to say goodbye to everything eventually

So every day is a practice run

And you’re never ready

But your heart is so full

You know you can’t stay here

But you don’t know how long for

There are still spots in the world fertile enough for your roots to grow

You just need to keep carrying the water around with you and if you happen to shed tears - you don’t lose I promise

There are more letters I want to pen but I must keep some ink left

Turn the page

And stop here

I’ll lift my feet up and walk eventually

I must learn there are more memories to be made

I just don’t know where yet

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People aren't homes, they never will be. People are rivers, always changing, forever flowing. They will disappear with everything you put inside them.

~ Nikita Gill

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— Edna St. Vincent Millay, from a letter to Arthur Davison Ficke featured in Savage Beauty: The Life of Edna St. Vincent Millay.

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Mary Oliver, from “We Should Be Well Prepared”, Red Bird

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Eclipse of the Sun in Venice in July 8, 1842 by Ippolito Caffi.

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This desire for home is the secret which hurts so much that you take your revenge on it by calling it names like Nostalgia and Romanticism and Adolescence or maybe the future; the secret also which pierces with such sweetness that when, in very intimate conversation, the mention of it becomes imminent, we grow awkward and affect to laugh at ourselves; the secret we cannot hide and cannot tell, though we desire to do both. We cannot tell it because it is a desire for something that has never actually appeared in our experience. We cannot hide it because our experience is constantly suggesting it, and we betray ourselves like lovers at the mention of a name. Our commonest expedient is to call it beauty and behave as if that had settled the matter. My expedient was to identify it with certain moments in my own past. Probably to make sense of it. But all this is one big misconception. If I had gone back to those moments in the past, i would not have found the thing itself, but only the reminder of it. I am living in tiny fragments that don’t seem to exist anymore, it’s like I’ve robbed time into my conscience and I cannot give it back.

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Margaret Atwood, from The Blind Assassin  

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I feel it shifting

The season

But also my skin

The music in my head going slower

The sky almost blinding the iris when I stare at it

I’m here I can feel it

But it’s different I know it

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I’ve been withdrawing from everything

Like an addict who knows what’s good for them

Like the way my mother would say no if I asked for another sweet

The disposition to know when enough is enough and

Quite the opposite too

To give so much to a version of myself that is now running with no fuel for words

Dare I say empathy too

The tank is empty

The paint is dry

No candles left to burn

The tap

Drip Drop

The sound lulls me back

Just not to sleep

I’m awake constantly

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exurb1a, from "Climbing Gym" in Poems for the Lost Because I'm Lost Too

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littlepie.hoian

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Mahmoud Darwish, Memory for Forgetfulness: August, Beirut, 1982 (trans. Ibrahim Muhawi) [ID'd]

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unkept by Noor Hindi

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17th century Ottoman tent from the Dresden State Art Collections