blue message bubble. left on delivered. packing your dads sweater into a box. childhood home. sticky skin. kicking blankets off my bed.

going to sleep too hot, waking up too cold.

open the front door. walk forward, turn right.

see: an eleven year old finishing her tri-fold board on the aquarius constellation. standing for

five hours. shelving new books. odometer gained 322 miles in one week.

somewhere in central florida there’s a drop of my old perfume on a brand new pillowcase, and someone misses me.

zinc at 11:34am. ibuprofen at 1:59pm. iced mocha at 2:04pm. melatonin at 3:44am.

open the front door. walk forward, head upstairs.

see: a 20 year old laying bare on a newly constructed bed trying to make out the cup bearer on the ceiling.

an infatuation with the stars, a small eagerness to learn.

the hum of an ac unit: a reminder of routine.

hesitant to be someone new, insistent on not looking back.

a small breeze outside a reminder to trim my hair.

new underwear. new car keys. paint your nails a different color.

stars engraved in sterling silver in a ring on my middle finger.

converse from 2019. weathered laces, bunny ear then knot.

same feet. different pavement.