Leaving you begins with a kiss on my forehead. Tears do not follow immediately but much later when the wheels are off the ground. I spent the first night reminiscing the meals I had in the other counterparts of the world over 10 years ago. I spent the first day sitting down at a park, eating bits of chicken teriyaki sandwich off my lap, licking BBQ sauce from top of my fingers. Alone. It is quite obvious that I’m draping the wound of my recent loss with a patches of nostalgia from a long-ago. As if I’m denying the truth by using a shield of the past, in the name of familiarity, when new memories should form. Everyday feels like I’m in a brink of crying when so much beautiful things are screaming to be noticed in front of me. I wish I could say fuck you, past. I need future and I want it now. But I can’t. Leaving you ends with me in a faded pink bath tub, wallowing in absent water, wondering why I’ve done this – away from you and all the familiarity. I’ve yet to form an answer.
