pockets

It's being silent, eyes downcast and black, feeling cold and impenetrable and hostile. It's walking through woods, stomping across rushing creek, meekly poking the toe of your shoe into icy lake. It's the skin on your fingers peeling, your cheeks stinging with cold. It's fleece and borrowed warmth, a bonfire and chopping wood. It's having someone to whisper to in the dark. It's lying on the floor, on top of a blanket of dust and mud and grime, drawing stars and circles with bright-coloured markers and feeling small and cherished and young.

It's laughing with strangers. Dancing with strangers. Whooping (whoop-wooping) with strangers.

It's the prospect of going through the same thing again next, next (next?) week. Only there'll be alcohol this time around. Copious amounts, you promised me.

It's wondering if he'll call. And knowing that I want him to. Even if I find the sounds coming out of his mouth ridiculous.




I think I miss home.