The last time I went home, I pulled into the driveway and stepped out of the car. The ocean air surrounding me with a crisp chill. The salt air I could taste. Holding in that first deep breath, timing my exhale with the waves crashing on the sand.

The last time I went home,
I weighed my options like avocados,
not wanting to discard either.

Instead quietly stored emotions from other locales
remain stored within,
lodged between my ribs and stomach.
I just need to get away.

I have more vices than fingers and toes and yet
once I made a guacamole that people still speak of fondly.
No, it needed more lime.

This cracking open of memories.
The lessons I’ve learned getting used up too fast.
I think I know now.

The last time I went home, I wasn’t sure.
I didn’t see the point in remembering.
So I kept dreaming

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