Sometimes I miss.

Sometimes. It’s one of the words that make certain moments seem less meaningful, and others, all the more apparent.

Sometimes I think about what I left behind. Not all the time, but a veces. At times I focus so closely on the people, I feel like I’m threading a needle in the dark. My fingers hunt for what feels like a void, a space I can finally shed my thoughts and pull myself one step further into a seamless memory. Then I prick my thicker skin just enough to feel it’s pinch, like any kid might test their flesh to make sure nightmares aren’t souvenirs.

And just like that, I’m back in this old room.

Old not to me but to that greater perspective that none of us, who’ve yet to discover immortality, can ever completely see through. Old in the sense that the moldings were carved around the same time some family member, whom I’m told to call ‘great’ three times over, may have been alive for. Old in the sense that there are scratches in all the guilty places and quirky contraptions who’s only purpose now is to testify on time’s behalf. Old in a cliché fable sort of way, allowing modern souls to keep pretending foreign cities are still the way the seemed to be in that Keira Knightly period piece. Old in no sense at all but the senses themselves - the musty scent, rough edges, odd aesthetic, and neighborly soundtrack - that create my apartment.

In a place so telling of time, it’s hard not to think back.

I learn to not be shameful of nostalgia. That it’s okay to miss. That missing is really just a face of love. And although I’ve realized that what I miss is the time I could be spending creating ware and tare on the relationships I treasure most, I’m content just knowing they’re out there breaking-in their lives some more. Someday I’ll run back, hear about the creases, even help heal the scars. And vice versa.

Tonight, in a place where relationships are much thinner, I’m grateful for the few marks I’ve impressed upon this new home - the chips of paint and fractured wood that serve as evidence of my survival. And I think maybe this feeling, this small sense of miss, is in itself a scuff on the computer screen between you and I. It’s not an indication of imperfection, rather it’s a symbol of support.