When Your Heart Is In-between

Let’s get real. I haven’t been writing. I came home from Korea and started a fancy new job and a new relationship and because I needed all of it so badly, I couldn’t bear the honesty of writing for a while. Now, the job is gone and replaced by another. The relationship is long gone and good riddance. I feel again happy and on the verge of a new thing though I know not what.

I woke up in the middle of the night and found the journal I was keeping that first summer I came home. This piece stood out to me and I think there’s some key in it as to why it’s now ok to write again. At least now I’m not so scared of my own heart.


Driving after 6:00 am, window down and smoking
like a fool. Crying, trying to find anything that feels
good in Knoxville. Topping the hill of Elm Street and
the Sunsphere juts into the sky like a broken lamp
post, still dull in the pre-dawn light. Turning back to
Central. Old soul on the Fulton Falcon and me, just
wanting comfort, wanting what here is worth loving.

Thinking of Korea. The 60s facades on central looking
busted, gray. Can’t find their endearment. The bums
are riding bicycles but I’m alone. In Busan, I couldn’t
control myself. The lonesomeness ran me down, hunted
me in night clubs, caught me always at dawn, always
breathless in the arms of something desperate. I keep

through the Old City, cut up through downtown, hit
every light on Gay. Cross the bridge and look east,
the sky still purple and no blush on the horizon. Go
down Chapman and feel nothing. Cut back on James
White to cross the river again. See the Vol Navy docked
together like a pile of sleeping mice. Consider sitting
at Volunteer Landing. Realize driving feels good.

Crisscrossing Knoxville before summer is yet gone
on a mild night as it crawls into day. What luxury as
James White becomes 40, takes me to 17th and lets
Mechanicsville lead me back home to Old North.
Still, circling Lincoln Park until I see it, suddenly,
finally, going east on Atlantic my familiar sun hangs
like a hot red heartbeat over Broadway, heavy and
begging the question, what have I forgotten about love?



About mickayla

Writer & Educator. Knoxville, TN.
This entry was posted in homesick, nostalgia, poetry, Sketches, summer, Tennessee and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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