It’s been eleven years since I lived off west 130th street. I drive there alone, when I feel alone, to be alone. The air strikes me and I wander back. I can taste the coldness and warmth all at once. I’m seventeen again. I’m unaware of how the world can gut you, then rebuild you into someone you can’t recognize. I touch the pavement and remember drunken laugher- twisted limbs in summer heat. Sharing secrets that weren’t ours to tell. Deciding the hero’s in our story. Letting time rip through me like a current, except I can’t swim. So if you think I’m waving, I’m drowning. Not all parts of me stayed. I won’t say I buried pieces of myself- I’ll say I let them free. -AMT ©️