Go drink up the sky, it'll be our little secret.

In rummaging through the muddled and anarchic state of my psyche's unscathed file cabinets, I happened upon a handful of rootless dreams. They greeted me much as one would a long-lost friend, with familiar warmth and solace. Then something within me eased; as if I had leisurely reclined back into some old overstuffed chair. The pain was seemingly gone.

 We sat then together and reminisced over infinite cups of tea about the Better Days, or at least until the dawning sun began to cast little ribbons of light through the dirty window pane, painting patterns on the dusty floor.

I stole a second's glimpse at them, all smiling and glowing like. They made me want to remember.

In that moment, the incurable ache had restored itself to its fullest supremacy. I hate saying goodbye, and there was then still a daunting task before me. The stage had been set, with each actor precisely in place. The question remains: Would I leave?

"Not all who wander are lost."- Tolkien