The Boy I Miss Most

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I miss quiet moments with myself, when my wit creates prose, not solutions. In these minutes of solitude, I'd free-write something like "You put the art in artificial" while listening to music redolent of my tears, like Stelle E Luna or Hanniou.

My mind wouldn't fester at the thought of pending status or wage claims or mending some half-assed entrepreneur's operational dysfunction at minimum wage. I'd exist in the context of my craft. I'd be an artist again. 

I consider every person I've ever known, loved, and lost—all those chapters of my life that ended with me hanging from the cliff. I gaze at this broad selection of muses, all of whom I've revived with lyricism. That's when I realize that the boy I miss most is myself. 

I used to be the artist, before I became the concept of some equation, a variable to be solved. I used to feel love; now I feel myself yearn for it. Part of me feels at home here. And part of me thinks home is something you must run away from. 

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