RFS - Reminiscings from Selfistan

There's a part of me that loves this constant moving around;
There's a part of me that hates it.
That hates having to say goodbye and not knowing when we'll see each other next.
But that also loves that anticipation of not knowing. Of not knowing who I'll be, who you'll be, who we'll be, what we'll be, where we'll be. That sort of thing.

There's a part of me that misses you - you person, you life, you lifestyle, you dream and dreams - that misses what I had become, what I was becoming, and what I had left behind.

And now that I have found what I had left behind, albeit in a different form, I miss having left it behind and having walked away, maybe run away.

I miss the late nights spent poring over words - my words, your words, our words, his words, her words. Words written. Words spoken. Words hidden. Words open.

I miss the late nights that will remain unremembered. Hidden somewhere beneath the layers of ash, beneath layers of that which is ever-forgiving, ever-haunting, ever-losing. That which intoxicates, toxicates, makes us sing words uttered by God and written by Man, makes us want to reach out and be yours, makes us want to stop and stop and stop until nothing remains.

I miss the late nights spent wide awake, staring. Or listening. Or dreaming. Or screaming.

I miss the last few days, when late nights turned into glorious mornings. And glorious mornings turned into sad afternoons, that turned into relaxing evenings and boisterous nights that turned into glorious sunrises, with a little headache.

And now. I sit here rambling. Uncertain. Of where I stand, or sit.

Waiting for another glorious morning - just like that (almost) penultimate one.