I'm going back.
My heart soars with the thought of beaches and languid afternoons, of the chickens that live across the road from our condo and the children that chase the chickens and laugh.
I'm going back.
I'm so tired of cold, gray skies and cold air that burns my throat and that lost, desperate feeling of being alone in a slick, empty world. Give me green. Give me pounding surf and sun on my neck.
I'm going back.
The thought pounds behind my forehead, creeping in like a drumbeat to every task I complete.
I'm going back.
I cannot stay here - I never belonged to this ocean of sameness, this flat Midwestern tundra. I belong to the sky, and the sky lives on that island that I love.
I'm going back.
I'm going back.
I'm going back.
YOU ARE READING
WORDS: a journal
PoesieA journal of random writing, poetry, and short story snippets. Some will be good, some will suck. This is my experimental space. Read if you like, but please no judging. I am willing to share my personal writing on this one condition. ***Please read...
