i want a word for the almost-home.
that point where the highway’s monotony becomes familiar
that subway stop whose name will always wake you from day’s-end dozing
that first glimpse of the skyline
that you never loved until you left it behind.
what do you call the exit sign you see even in your dreams?
is there a name for the airport terminal you come back to,
i need a word for rounding your corner onto your street,
for seeing your city on the horizon,
for flying homewards down your highway.
give me a word for the boundary
between the world you went to see
and the small one you call your own.
i want a word for the moment you know
you’re almost home.
1. Lay on the floor of your shower until you can breathe again. Water will always love to love your skin.
2. Start writing with the intention of filling up one page. Write until your pen stops working.
3. Reread a book that once made you cry. Learn something new on every page. Notice how different chapters make you sad. Notice how the book didn’t change and grow; you did.
4. Sleep with your windows open. You can hear both the rain and boys drunkenly singing Frank Sinatra on their deck. Both are equally good.
5. Don’t forget that honey will always taste sweet, but the best way to eat it is off your fingers, laughing.
6. Remember that, sometimes, getting out of bed is enough."