I’m free bleeding from an open wound in my chest.
The knife of being abandoned with my books got pulled from its home of infection and tetanus, and somehow, after decades of life growing around it, there’s gallons of hurt pouring from the gash.
Now I’m once again a teenager, frantically dashing my eyes from face to face, idiotically hoping they’ll find yours. People older and wiser would scoff at the absurdity; the thought that even though you weren’t here to witness it, the ruin my newly kicked out tenant has left me in, or the one to even do it, I still expect to see you walk through those double doors and wrap me up in healing.
I’m old and wise enough to roll my eyes at my own delusion: That even though your desk in my brain was vacated for years, I’m sitting here still as a stone waiting for you to glimmer into the empty space in front of me, simply because I dusted off your name plate.
How redundant.