I sit in a seat uncomfortably
cushioned with three bickering pillows.
I write in a room filled with nothing
but boxes awaiting a recycling bin.
I sleep in a home shared with a kind family
who treat a friend like an estranged uncle.
I reside in a city with endless heat
and too-long drives that drain the joy from my soul.
I chose that seat, that room, that house, and that city.
But I did not want to choose them.
I miss an old seat,
comfortably padded as if the cloths were embracing their children.
I miss our shared room,
with our clothes hung out to dry on those summer rainy days.
I miss our tiny home,
one of four of that "mansion" just five minutes from the train.
I miss our city,
hot in the summer, and cold in the winter, and made wonderful with you.
I wish I could choose that old seat, that shared room, that tiny home, and our city.
But you chose for me to leave them.
10 July 2019
