This city’s breeze has been getting the best of me lately. It reminds me of a place (and of people) I spent every day forgetting. This sweat feels familiar. The humidity feels like home; and the sun bright and unforgiving. It makes me feel exposed in a way I was used to (maybe) three years ago.

I hate how this jarring familiarity triggers something inside of me. I hate how easy it is for you to ricochet inside my mind no matter how many times I try to push back.

I hate how platonic this silence can get.

It reminds me of a time when we were okay, when it so easy to bend back into your raw edges. We spent a lot of time exchanging secrets

out of laughter,
out of comfort,
out of loneliness.

I don’t know the exact moment it started to feel out of place, it just somehow pin wheeled together and became one dizzy mess.  

I guess there are a lot of reasons why it happened (I have to keep telling myself this anyway) and it’s easy to point fingers at the people who took jabs at me for the sake of it. They wanted to carve homes to be remembered and it’s just so damn hard to dig them up behind.

I catch myself wishing to slip into the pockets of your life again. Just to see how you’re doing – As a reminder that my rubber bands pulling back were all warranted in order for me to keep living. That this weight you had over me was suffocating when all I wanted to do was breathe fresh air.

But it’s hard to accept that it was my fault, too. I said things that I swore wasn’t me. I did a lot of hurting, a lot fists to the jaw talking. Out of ignorance, out of keeping my pride my own. It’s still taking time for me to own up to that, but I’m taking strides in that direction. Maybe one day, this heat will be welcoming like the palm trees that gave me shelter.

I don’t know where I’m going with this other than saying all of this has left me in a frantic haze. Sometimes the wind cuts the air out of me and there are no words. Other times, there aren’t enough.  I’d like to think, instead of tending to these wounds in a quiet corner, that this open letter is my soft resolve. (I want to look back and believe it is).

Each ounce of care is getting careworn through all of my pores, pulling from my skin in all sorts of directions. The magnetized static is stagnant. It all hangs loose; a cloud of carelessness whispers:

If we ever stopped talking,
Know that I am sorry.
Know that I am regretful.
Know that I am still your friend.
Know that I miss you.

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