You are driving me insane. But you are also my sanity.

We share the same values. But have difficulty sharing the same continent. Exponentially different but coming back to the same root.  Your intercontinental dispersal is causing me aortic plate tectonics. This long distance love is pulling my heart in two (hundred) different directions. Mama, I just wanna go home.

There’s something wrong with the wifi. But our connection is never faulty. At any given time, there’s nowhere I’d rather be than with you. Nights on Grandma’s verandah, crickets chirping like this disconnected facetime call. Do you remember the sound of our childhood? Because I do. Dominoes hitting the table as heads hit pillows. Upload that shit to spotify and listen to it on replay for eternity. Love has a soundtrack and this is it. Turn the volume up. Can you hear me now?

What was once the Holy Kitchen for 6:30 has become The Hallowed Skype at 7. The meeting room has changed and so have you and I. Calls dropping like dreams, I might know your time zone but I’m zoning out on a solution. It’s all about perspective, and I could listen to yours forever. Did you mean a Brooklyn 7pm? A Montego Bay 7am? Dubai 19:00? Tell me, because I would never want to miss sharing a meal with you.

Trying to fix this broken home via Facebook messenger. The group chat has 164 messages but I still don’t have an answer. Mom maybe if you inbox me one more motivational quote I might find some inspiration. Hit refresh a thousand times on the homepage of you. Geo-map this heartache and you would drop a pin on the fountain of homesickness. I miss you but this is what I need to do right now. Is it right to be doing this, if I can’t do this with you?

I want the privilege of hanging out until we can’t stand each other. The luxury of being sick of you. How do you define home when the foundations of your being are rooted in parallel universes. The pillars of my existence spread too far apart to build a communal shelter. Mama I’m tired, I just want to go home.

I want to fight over whose turn it is to do the dishes. That basic stereotypical. Permanently living in the near distant Neverland of reunited. Why is it that the dishes only get clean to get dirty again? I’m so tired of racing in circles trying to outrun the inevitable. We have to clean this up again? Already? Your turn.

You are always welcome at my table,because I know how much you bring to it. Love is guaranteed but your food is not promised, if you are late one more time. Interdependency served hot out the oven, dish me up some of that loving and serve up some of your pride. I am starving for something of substance.

I want to share the daily anxieties, white wine analysis as we wait for the oven to warm. Bing, time is up. Dessert for breakfast, you are worth every calorie. I can’t take orders but I can order in whatever you like. I will never understand why you want that, but I support anything that makes you happy. We both know it won’t satisfy you, but I’ll be here at 4 am when your soul wakes up hungry.

I want to be with you, but to be me, I can’t be with you. We may not be on the same physical plane but we’re riding the same mental wave. We may not tuck each other in but we are tucked into each other’s promises. I can’t keep you near, but I can keep a promise. I can’t hold the world together but I can hold your hand. When I can’t hold your hand, I can hold you to your truth. I can’t dream next to you but I can dream with you. Any dream you want to dream is fine by me.

The geography of my identity is a land that doesn’t exist anymore. We went looking for something greater and discovered that meaning of lacking. My dream is to build a compound and lock you all in. Because as much as I am me, I am only me in the context of you. Tell me something, do you know where you begin and I end because I’m losing track.

In a world of broken promises.  We said family and we meant it. Mama, it’s time to go home.

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