The trouble with loving too many places is that I'm always missing something.
I miss the smell of pine trees and the way the stars look from the top of the world. I miss the sound of a clear mountain river leaping over rocks. I miss sagebrush and those three days in July when the temperature leaps 30 degrees.
I miss the smell of soil after three days of heavy rain and the way the fireflies dance over a freshly-mown lawn. I miss the sound of cicadas. I miss the world being a division of emerald green flora and black-brown dirt.
I miss the vibe of London, the feel of Paris, and the atmosphere in Barcelona.
I miss my friends. Lately, I've especially been missing a certain friend who never failed to cheer me up just by being the mellowest Pink Floyd fan I've ever met.
I miss being around people who know what I'm thinking without asking me.
I miss extended Lord of the Rings marathons and reminiscing. I miss s'mores followed by zany attempts at homemade movies. I miss spilling my guts at 1 o'clock in the morning between watching The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants and that crappy Keira Knightley Pride & Prejudice. I miss exchanging knowing glances with A and giving BK crap for renting the most random movies and forcing me to watch them.
I miss the comforting smells of my very best friends in the world. I miss melting into them like we're a litter of puppies.
I miss my mom's horrible puns. I miss quoting movies with her that no one else has even heard of.
Listening to: Baby Mama
Reading: Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert