There you are.
All of you.
Here I am.
How were the last six months, he asked. Long, I thought to myself.
How were yours. Blank. He said.
Years until I see you again.
On the way back home, I saw a newly opened store of clothes.
Each cloth has a different name written on it.
And the shop keeper waits, till the different name bearers keep coming.
|“You’re not sorry to go, of course. With people like us our home is where we are not… No one person in the world is necessary to you or to me.”|
— F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise