one by one.

Perhaps in either place, the grass will feel the same. Perhaps the sun shines through the clouds the same, the heat of little sun-drenched slivers of light falling to my feet through the filter of a tree's branches. In the night, the stars will blur together the same, reminding me of home (or at least a place I once considered a home). As I tilt my head upwards, look into the orange glow of a street lamp, my eyelashes capture drops of water. I think of the singularity of places. But I can't help but feel similarities exist; similarities must exist. I am not sure I will ever be able to quantify the differences, the vast gaps in meaning and definition between one location and another. What good would it do? All I am sure of is that I can find home under drops of water, under street lamps, pressed against my kitchen cabinet, inhaling the warm and salty scent of the skin across your neck. Whether I find something in one place or another is of no consequence. I suppose grass and sunlight and the brightness of the moon mean nothing. I only know I like the weight of you.