My little poem
The night has settled in. I’m home alone. My clumsy raw lesson plan, all done. Green salad and scrambled eggs: the simplest dinner recipe yet. I look around over and over, nothing at all. I have already gone out for a long walk. Don’t feel like going out again alone. The picture of my nieces and my nephew Pipyto by the TV stand, I placed there from day one. Terribly missing them.
When nostalgia hits, all the good memories with friends and family come to mind. The painting on the wall by my good friend Erick brings wistful tears to my eyes. They’re not tears of unhappiness, not at all. They feel different, unusual. They form a lump in my throat. It’s natural, of course. I’m not sad; I just really miss them all.
The painting on the wall: Philadelphia, a city I called home for far too long, where I spent countless happy moments, and then some. I don’t think I miss Philly though; I just miss home.
Most of all, I’m naturally and inevitably missing him like hell. Twenty days until I can hold him again. Counting the days. Too long, but I’m just so excited knowing that my boyfriend will come!
Watching Sex and The City last night made me think of my girlfriends. Definitely not the same in a language other than its own; the idioms and expressions get lost in translation and I’m totally having a hard time understanding their jokes. But that’s okay, it makes me feel closer to home.