I was here before. It all feels familiar. Not identical, similar: Like a mother’s lullaby in a foreign tongue; or the same excuse from a different woman’s mouth or the same woman for 37 years.
I can’t put my finger on it, but I can point in its direction: where it’s coming from, not why she’s here. That would take more time and more attention to her details.
Looking for signs makes me feel lost and rushed to be somewhere I’m not, someone I don’t understand. I was here before. It all feels familiar. Not identical. Similar.
Foreign Tongues | Christopher Troy ©
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