It has been five years
Five years since I left my home, my friends,
But my love is kinda fickle. So how’s about this instead?
There’s this girl you see,
She is my best friend.
My sista’ from anutha’ mutha’ to put it in colloquial terms.
I want to go home. She is
I remember days—weeks; months; years—when we would laugh about the silly stuff
Cry about the hard stuff
Talk about our lives. The future.
We still do. We never stopped.
But I want to reach my hand out and touch a person.
I want to reach my hand out and feel warmth and soft cheeks and be pulled into a hug
I want to not touch the cool computer screen and block out the text that we send back and forth.
It’s better than nothing in the end, I suppose.
I’ve had dreams too.
Dreams where I’m stepping off the plane
And I’m walking out of the terminal.
And all I’m looking for is her smile. I’ll find it, albeit blurred by my tears.
God I am running.
Dropping everything hands outstretched crowds parting
I wake up.
My hands clumsily fumble around my headboard for a familiar rectangular device
All the while I’m staring up at the white of my ceiling
Wishing for this to be the dream and that to be the reality.
I find my phone and send out a quick “morning”
The cycle repeats.