location: nyc

i take photographs of everything i experience because i’m convinced that one day i’m going to get alzheimer’s and somehow everything is going to slowly disappear. i’ll forget the face of the boy who bought me flowers and played with my hair in the dark. i’ll forget what street i grew up on and the color of my mothers eyes. i’ll forget about my obsession with van gogh and that i prefer white wine over red. i am going to forget every god damn thing that made my knuckles bleed and every god damn thing that made me whole. but at least i’ll still have my photographs.

I come home to you

and my bones have been rebuilt by London. 

My heart pumps Ireland through my veins, and Amsterdam

is swimming in my eyes. 

You stare hard at my American mouth, but you do not taste the leftover

Poole on my lips. 

You stand there, your flesh still full 

with New York City, 

And you look at me like you can’t smell 

the Paris on my clothes. 

You touch me, like my skin isn’t

freckled with Brighton and Brugge. 

I know I’ll always look at you 

like I’m seeing your glow 

for the first time, from 

an airplane window. But, 

maybe I’m not coming home

To You. 

Maybe, I’m just coming home. Maybe, 

I don’t have one.