When I think back to my travels,
I often remember
the people. Flashes of crows
feet, the widening of smiles,
and the annoyed, playful
gazes of someone sick of my
shit.
In the background, there's
always a logo:
Sometimes, it's 7/11; others
it's CU.
The specifics are irrelevant
—So long as there is a place
to sit,
cheap alcohol, an ashtray,
and a desire for company.
It's this desire I miss the most.
I miss it from the bowls of my
heart.
I miss the ways in which
she challenged me. The way
he brought me out of my shell.
The way they listened.
Those moments, at those
places, tend to stick with you
like cat fur on all your favourite
clothes
—or scars.
A friend once told me that
these moments are the
hardest to bear because
that's how the insidious
kinds of nostalgia creep in,
that's how you start missing
what was instead of
embracing what is.
I didn't know, as usual,
what to say at that moment.
But reflection guided me
to an answer.
These moments being scars
is not what's important
—the perception of them is.
They're multifaceted.
They're sad because I miss them.
And happy because I had them.
Depending on how I look, they
change shape, size and colour.
I miss those times, I
miss those people, and I miss
those nondescript places.
But those times are done.
And it's important to
remember that otherwise, I'll
miss out on all the other
places of variety.
And the special
people they'll bring.