I am excited to go back home. I want to listen to music as dust sands down my every follicle and sweat drips from my pores. I want to hold her hand while we skip to our next adventure. I want to find that boy and offer him a kiss. I want to see the lights move around me. I want to meet up with friends new and old so we can find and then lay down on the biggest and most comfortable thing. I want to touch the fucking art.
I want to hear laughter and fucking. I would love to see skin. I want to see homemade accessories and I want to drink interesting things and eat dusty camp food. I want it to be so hot in the daytime, so I can watch the world shimmer from the safety of my shade. I want to play on toys and look at new things and listen to stories.
I want to know in every moment that I don’t need to be “enough,” that I can simply be me with no expectations.
I am very ready to go home, despite how temporary the place is. Because after all, am I not temporary, and is my own heart not home?