The fatigue of habituation plagues my heart.
I’m cursed to see the same faces on every block
and then go home to dream of some far-off place
made of movie magic and fairy dust.
I’ve memorized the worn sidewalks that line each winding street,
every historical building flaunting the bricks of the past,
and each sickly-sweet park bench filled with gossiping mothers,
sipping coffee from their overly-painted lips.
There isn’t anything left for me in a place
that thrives off routine and familiarity,
anchored by its nods to the convention,
when my soul only craves rare adventures
and late nights where anything could happen.
I long to look up at sky and see towering buildings
that twinkle in the dark.
I crave a city that sparkles and shimmers at all moments:
somewhere that never sleeps, is never quiet,
with palpable energy pulsing through the ground and into my soul.
Yet I’m stuck where I grew up,
surrounded by suburban dreams
and small-town nightmares.

Editor: Shannon Hensley