Home again, home again. Or back in Portland, at the very least. Home as something I go back to, ever, has long ceased to be.

The closest I ever felt to home was matching my breathing to Michael's late at night, after he had fallen asleep, with his even, shallow breathing and parted lips. Poor kid. I miss him like nothing else. Not painful, exactly, but close to the bone. Sharp and dazzling, this sort of pain, maybe a little sweet too. Sweet, but not like sugar or honey, it's more like...mango. Tart mango. The kind you cut to early and sting your tongue on. Whew, that's Mikey alright, too sharp too soon.

Now I'm lazing in bed, with my eyes half-shut...vaguely concerned that I never called my grandmother back. Eh, she's unkind and sick in her heart. Her home is full of weird vibes that kill my smile and charm.

Yes, it's time for bed and not at all time for worry. Maybe another place I'm at home is when I'm asleep. It's hard to be uncomfy when you're perfectly sound and not conscious at all. Self-awareness kills my comfort, I think. The sad thing about that is that self-awareness can't be gotten rid of the way habits like biting nails or falling in love every 36 seconds. Oh me, I hope the latter can be changed.

Silly girl.