The thought of other people
Stepping in to fill the role
That you just left
Kills me

I still want you to know my details
And I want to know yours

God, how are we going to do this?

I’m sitting here in a park
The park we went to before we said goodbye, actually

It’s the first Saturday since you were mine
And it’s the first time I’ve paused for long enough to catch a breath

It’s a little hard to catch
To be honest

We talked on the phone earlier
It was good to hear from you
But it was hard to connect
(I guess that’s why we ended up here in the first place)

God, I just want to feel close to you
And I can’t right now
I can’t
And that makes my head spin

But I’ll breathe through it

The world is carrying on around me
Kids are playing
Dogs are exploring
Boats are passing
And I keep on breathing

I’m going to make it through this
I’ll carry on soon

my lightbulb burned out
and I can’t breathe

it feels like
the aftershock of an earthquake

or the wetness
that clings to the air
after a heavy rain

the storm has passed,
yet it lingers

I’ve been here a while now.

In this foreign land of flashing lights and rushing people,
Of too-small hallways and too-high-to-believe buildings.

I’ve pressed myself into countless crowded subway cars,
Jumped out of the way when my shower water inexplicably (but unfailingly) turns scalding hot,
Clocked in thousands of steps going up my four flights of winding stairs (the last one being the one that really gets you),
And woven through person after person on the street, as though I’m a car, like a true New Yorker.

I’ve been out here all by myself
In a place that feels as far from home as could be.

But I must say
The strongest sense of home
Has crept up
And stricken me
A few times now
When I’m not expecting it.

Home is
The feeling of going on a run
The familiar sensation of pushing myself to just keep going
The reward of a beautiful view
The tried and true playlist I know so well.
I discovered this little snippet of home the first time I took a run in the city, along the East River around twilight.

Home is
The feeling of walking into a yoga studio
The familiar creaks made by bare feet padding along wooden floorboards,
The familiar scent of lavender and burning candles
The challenge of flowing through these poses I’ve held a thousand times
The comfort of being told at the end that all I have to do is let the earth hold me
I discovered this little snippet of home the first time that I took a yoga class in the city, at New York Yoga.

Home is
The feeling of working my way through my morning routine
The slow, peaceful ritual of brewing my coffee and heating up my muffin
(then slathering it with almond butter)
The soft light and quiet morning sounds that accompany my morning reading
The migration to the couch as I continue to relax and ease into the day
The awareness that there’s nothing to hurry to, nothing to do but to enjoy this moment
I discovered this little snippet of home the first Saturday that I had to myself in the city, in my apartment on the Upper East Side.

Home is more of a feeling than a place, isn’t it?
It’s a deep sense of comfort,
A sense of, I know this.
It’s an exhale,
A soft flicker of contentedness
A suddenly visible string
Tethering you to what you know and love.

I am grateful to have found these little snippets of home
That made me forget that I am so far away

And soon enough,
This far-away place will start to feel like home, too.

it feels like
a sucker punch
right to the stomach
right when you least expect it

it knocks you out
and leaves a bruise
that will take a long while
to heal

but it will