this blustery city is worming its way into my skin, in through all the nooks and crannies, in through the pores. it is written as a dry narrative, one that floats in the air and is caught by the wind, one that lands on that woman's face as she is running, round the park. one that i can taste in the back of my throat as i wake in the closed off room, free of the emcumbrance of air. it is a homecoming that feels like coming home, that seems to be gentle, that seems filled with adventure. next to that and woven in it is an absence, a mindfulness and a blossoming, and a promise i have made to myself, that i whispered to the rock. maybe you can hear it, over there, in your proximity to the things i've left behind. maybe you already know what i said.