Home.

Finding familiarity in a perfect stranger.

It’s like being stuck in elevator music, waiting for your destination to chime. Your mind numbs. Your thoughts skip ahead. That all-encompassing sense of vacancy consumes and penetrates you until the point of desire is finally reached.

But it never came. It didn’t even send a telegram (which may seem TOO out-dated for all you new school cats).

My face contorted and I felt the hysterics rising. This is purgatory; a dull, soul-crushing limbo that squeegeed all the monikers out of me so I could only refer to myself as “I.” Where is the fun in that? So it’s easier to find my soul? So my essence can breathe without superficial restraints?

Sounds perfect.

And then, he walked in with a hard, grey, and unwelcoming face. It reminded me of a concrete surface. I wanted to mark him with hand prints before it completely solidified. And for some reason, I felt more consciously aware of my appearance more than ever.

“Tell me some stories,” he said. His breathing reminded me of the slow, steady rain on a summer’s night.

“I don’t have any.” The heat pricked at my skin.

“Make up one, then,” he whiffed.

I couldn’t wipe the silly-stupid-drunk-in-love look off my face.

“There once was a girl with no name,” I began. ”Because she lost it.”

He chuckled. I smelt a body burning on the pyre, somewhere far off.

“Could you help me?” I begged. “I think I’ll find my soul when I go home.”

He unfolded my arms and memorized my geography.

“It’s right here,” he said. He took my finger and traced a treasure map on his skin. I fell into him and dissected his thoughts over and over again.

The telegram arrived.

Warm familiarity kicks in: I’m home.