what used to be my favourite mornings
I miss the mornings when I use to wake up, light shining into my eyes, a place I’ve never opened my eyes to before. Foreign objects around me; a hideous night lamp, maybe a bible in the drawer, and raggedy curtains to match. Sometimes a person sleeping in the bed across, someone I’ve met less than eight hours ago. When you get out of bed and your feet touch the floor, it’s all entirely foreign. When the new dirt sticks to your feet, and you take a glance around, you remember which country you’re in, what you ate the night before, and that you don’t miss home at all. I miss feeling of walking out the door, not knowing what to expect at all.
