The fog stuck to the grass, it glazed the streetlights like a cataract. Yesterday I hugged two friends
goodbye and a selfish part of me does not want them to be
so far away. It just makes me so mad and empty.
The fog reminded me of those few mornings after being out all night and the less than cleansing feeling it has on the skin. The beer breath thick in your throat, the need to wash clean last night's illusion, the dirt on the cuffs of your socks.
Those mornings make you feel like you went somewhere, that you had traveled enough of a distance to feel its weight in your skin, like the moment you get out of a car that you've been driving for half the day and your eyes see only severe reds and blues for a moment, then clear to catch the grey glint of highway and a neon sign for food that will only further cement inside your intestines.
Today, I wear my glasses because I slept with my contacts in and they were suction-cupped to my corneas. I wear my hat because I have bed head. I carry within me residue from my trip this week, and I didn't even go anywhere. The trip came to me.
I miss you already, and it's achy hollow feeling we all know, but one with an ounce of hope. I know that we will know each other as we go on, that this will go on, and that's enough to make me smile to myself as I drive back to my empty apartment that had only known me and my body for its occupants but now seems to have gotten smaller now that it's just me again. I'll never understand how that works.