Always the summers.

I’ve been dreaming about strange days. Past days, messy ones. Remote islands where big dogs live. Streets I’ve never seen before. I’ve been visiting houses of people I don’t know, scared of being caught looking for dinner leftovers in the fridge. I’ve been changing lately. I can see this body and this face transforming, time covering them slowly, soft dust over the windowpanes. I’ve been thinking of all the people I used to be, and who I am no longer in touch with. I used to see prisms in the sky, find melodies in the clouds, marvel for hours at their movement. I used to hear the wind howl my name and formulate questions I was determined to answer. Eyes full of wonder, hunting bones in the desert. I still look at the clouds and find peace, but their songs are just whispers now. I used to hide in these pages. Days blended together, eternal summer. Porcupine Tree and chalk on the walls.

Time didn’t have meaning then. Nor does it now.

I’ve been visiting the ghost of those days. Past days, easier ones. I think I understand now.

I’ve been changing lately,
but perhaps I’m just coming back.