senseless

Out here it's like I'm someone else, I thought that maybe I could find myself. If I could walk around, I'd swear i'd leave, I won't take nothing but a memory...

I miss Portugal. A lot. I told my mom today that I was over it. I was earlier, but I slip back so easily. I'm overwhelmed with mental images of all the places I've been. I long for the embrace of my friends, the two kisses of greetings, the wishes for good days, the coffee, the sing-song portuguese language, the ease of life.

I can't smell cigarette smoke without thinking of Felipe's slender fingers reaching into another box of Marlboro's searching for his next fix. The way his glasses would slip down his nose a little as his face relaxed when he took in his first breath. The way the corners of his mouth would turn up slightly in a little grin as he felt the nicotine take effect.

I can't listen to certain music without Hugo coming to mind. I was caught off-guard today when one of his rarer favorites came on the radio. It made me think of his gorgeous eyes, his little laugh, the freckles on his face that he tried to cover up with a little stubble, his car with the broken shift stick, his eclectic decorations and scandalous photography. The way I would sit on the wooden chest in his room while he tried to write in english so I could help him with his grammer. It made me long for his morning greeting of, "hello beautiful" no matter how I looked, for the nonchalant way he would grab my hand as he pulled me across the street towards our next adventure.

I can't feel the gust of wind from a passing semi going down Mississippi street without thinking about the trip to work everyday. My first warning was to stay at least a foot in from the street while walking on the sidewalk. Because the mirrors on the buses stick out far enough to take you out if you aren't careful.

I can't drink coffee without longing for the bitter strong taste of their cafe. The strong kick that came on immediately that could wake the dead. The addiction that pulled so strong that you had to stop for coffee before the day could start, after lunch, before you went home from work, and then again after dinner. The feeling of knowing exactly how much sugar to add and the exact number of circular stirs needed to cool it down enough to take it back in one gulp.

So tonight I won't smell, hear, feel or taste anything. No Portugal. No United States. Nothing.

Tomorrow I'll pick myself up and be ready for another day, but I have 9 hours until then to be senseless.