6.6.18 | I spent too long trying to write this and it's still not enough

we drive down a bumpy highway,
foreign and strange and soaked with
rain kissed adventure.
a friendly fog fills the road and I feel
more at home.
I think back to the beginning of this expedition,
to the views above a city I didn't belong to,
and suggestive messages gingerly placed on a magnet board.
my hands fumbled through the words,
not fast enough to create a response
to do this feeling justice.
my mind becomes fixated on the little things,
like old times.
I'm almost grateful for it,
almost,
yet not quite.
the little things weave a sweater for my heart
to be worn upon its sleeve,
a walking target and I am constantly shot at.
in a world where I could be anything,
I can't be myself.
because I don't know how to anymore.