an ode to the midwestern air. or, maybe home is anywhere I can smell trees and dirt.

two nights ago,

my face pressed against the screen,

i breathed deeply.

most days back in brooklyn, that's all i want to do.

breathe.

deeply.

i'm not saying it's magic, but.

there is something about the midwestern air

that hit me

the literal second I walked off my plane.

i don't have to be in the middle of a field--

my parents' yard is enough.

i camped out beneath the window last night, reading,

incapable of pulling myself away.

it hurts the depths of me

in the best of ways

and reminds me

of being 

little.