Fernweh.

I had this whole clever post thought out
where I would begin with an abstract thought
which would somehow tie it into the metaphorical bottom line.

Well.

Here is the bottom line:
I moved so much when I was a child that
it is almost impossible for me to ever feel
at home.
Every day I feel myself searching for the cracks
and the downside of the present situation
with the hopes of convincing myself to pack it all up,
again,
for the fifth time this year,
and move my carcass to another locale.

I'm restless.
I changed the bedding today and
I am almost confused as to why.
I haven't slept under the sheets since she left me -
some strange manifestation of mourning
or perhaps I believe that if I get under covers then
it is all true
and New York is much further away than I want to believe.

Stupid sobriety.
In the morning I will feel like a king
but the nights find me just a little bit
lost.
So I make the bed
and lay down to sleep.