I won’t ever know this kind of rain again,
It won’t cloud my hearing and embrace my clothes.
No longer will this misty air lay on my skin.
No longer will the moss sway
as the streets flood.
The crack of thunder will no longer interrupt
discussions across tables.

No longer will this blue house be my home,
where endless alarms can be heard in the morning,
and polar opposite rooms align to the meeting ground tile.
No longer will dinners of corn be shared,
where conversations stretch across
this white oak table as candle wax melts.
No longer will I belong to this place.

For I will return to quiet drizzles
Running rivers,
deeper greens,
and kind hearts.
I will return to quiet souls,
that murmur over the mist of coffee,
with pastry flakes lining the table.

I will leave this speck on a map
To another speck,
I call home.