You are grass. You are lying in the grass, rolling onto your back. You are the sun shining through the window, like laughter on a rainy day.
You are a welcome mat. Always in the doorway, observing silently, stoic – but always there nonetheless. Like a beacon in the night, you are arms thrown open, welcoming you home.
You are the streets at night. The glare of street lights on tired eyes and cars blurring past, as shadows dwell in the corners – you know it’s not safe to travel dark streets alone, but you feel the desire to anyways.
You are a scar. Stitched up and healed, weakened skin that threatens to reopen long after the pain. You are an imprint on the soul, on the heart, a reminder of what is and what could have been and what all there is left to do.