A Place, A Person

No matter how old you get, no matter where you are in this world, no matter who you’re with—there’s this place. 

There’s a place, and it’s not quite physical—not imaginary either—but it’s there. It’s the kind of place that you can feel. Deep down in your chest. It’s the kind of place that’s always there. And you can’t seem to forget it either. 

It reminds you it’s there when you’re listening to that song. The one that starts out fast and ends slow. It reminds you it’s there when you’re watching that scene— the one from the movie you watched with your friends while it was raining. The emotion in her face makes you cry every time. It reminds you it’s there you when you’re in the car. And you’re driving home—the way you always do. But still, the trees are really green and the wind is just right. It still feels special. Even for the hundredth time.

It’s this place of love. It’s like your childhood home. You haven’t been inside for years, but you know it’s always there, welcoming you back in. Except, it’s not a place at all really… It’s—It’s a person. Your place is a person. Someone you’ve never touched. But someone you know. Someone you love. 

You can feel them in your chest when you breathe in and out. And in your hands when you look at them. In the road by your childhood home. In the song your mom used to sing. In your friends when you cry together. In the smile across the room. In laughter—anyone’s laughter. In the grass by the water. In the nighttime, in the morning. In the sunset. In the moment after the sun sets. In the sunrise, in the new day. In your sleep, and when you wake up. When you’re running. When you’re dancing. When you’re staying still. When your eyes are closed. When they’re open. When you’re ok and when you’re not ok. You think about them even then. And it feels alright. Like you’re alright.