I said goodbye to you every morning for twelve years;
the place where I grew up.
Where all my insecurities are tied.

My friends found you almost as interesting as I
did. I brought my puppies home to you—much to your terror.

When I was younger, I loved playing hide and seek.
And there wasn’t a single space
— in which I couldn’t cozy myself to hide in,
just like how you cozy yourself among the trees.

You’re the warmth of mom, and the coldness of winter break.
You’re a catalog of framed faces.
You’re an audience of one, with a front row seat to my life,
— my home.

Saying goodbye wouldn’t be as easy if I didn’t have so much practice.
Sometimes it’s welcomed, sometimes it’s prolonged.
But some day I’ll say goodbye and learn to find you elsewhere.