Whenever you go away, I get homesick.

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Whenever you go away, I get homesick.
There are telling little mistakes in my handwriting.
I’m not here.
I try to be alone with the birds.
I take a bath, go outside, and think about how the air feels.
And the sun.
I seek sensations instead of memories.
Memory is never the delight it promises to be.
Crunching dry leaves in my fingers, I feel like I belong on earth,
but catching myself, I become self-conscious.
I make a weird kind of sense
in your context.
Even with the bullshit.
The things couples hide:
the expert fights,
the surgical strikes that make a late-night wasteland of our kitchen
when the pilots are drunk and grieving.
I know that kitchen — I know
what I will be feeling when we stand close together or far apart.
I’m comfortable with my rage and my fear.
I have always been afraid of the same things,
and one of them is love.

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