words on a torn and tattered page.

a certain kind of heaviness fills the depths of my heart with a weight of which i am uncertain i can bear. i am jumble of conflicting thoughts and emotions. i am leaving home, only to return home. i am forsaking family, only to be reunited with family. i am departing from love only to be welcomed by love's full embrace.

my heart is torn, my mind remains worn, and my weary eyes are reddened and swollen from the salty liquid that often dwells in the crevices of those sight giving crescents and caresses my cheek in soft streams, leaving traces of emotion painted on porcelain skin.

the time has come, though i denied it would. time to to bid farewell, to take in every last smell, taste, sight, and feeling of this place, of these people. with particular acuteness i am attuned to the details which envelope me. of the golden light that reflects off the ochre colored walls that line the street on which i dwell. of the tantalizing scent of coffee mixed with crepes that so often fills my nostrils as i recline in the wicker chairs of my favorite cafe. of the breeze, warm and humid that so often washes over my face and through the strands of my hair as i step out boldly into the world each morning. of the notes plucked on worn strings of tired guitars, accompanied by raspy harmonies sung with weightless spirit by street dwelling souls. the speeding beats of my heart, the excitement in my spirit, the curiosity that inhabits my mind, the memories of laughter and joy that remain imprinted in the corners of my eyes in the form of deep lines. this place, these people. they have become so much apart of me, and i apart of them. we are woven together, the threads of our existence bound tightly, enfolded, inseparable. as i prepare to turn the page of this tattered and worn book, i reflect on the words printed in black ink on these pages, the permanence with which each letter is placed, the order formed by sentences, written with great precision, transforming into paragraphs narrating the course of a journey, of a life. i inhale the worn and dusty smell of excellent literature aged on an old shelf, and my lips curl upward. smiling, i sigh a breath of contentment, of thankfulness, of a story well told.