I come back the way tides return home —
not by a whim, not by mistake,
but by a quiet longing that remembers heat:
the same old drama, the same old song,
the spoon that knew my mouth,
the streets that knew my feet.
I took myself into these small rehearsals —
the frames I have watched before,
the flavors that once felt my skin,
doing what kept my hands from wandering,
listening for the same old tune,
that once taught me to breathe.
It is not just comfort, it is a map of scars,
that I rewind to freeze a single pulse,
to sit in the fleeting trance,
where I once belonged —
and so I keep repeating it,
because repetition soothes,
stitching the wound with a familiar thread.