What had been.

Failed conversations. Falling buildings. The space where that was. What had been. The median. Humid places. Gap opening between the brick wall and the driveway. The running toilet. Are the things. Weeds choking. Ants devour aloe vera plants packed in lowslung pot. The chinaberry litters. The elephant ears impossibilize door opening. Cyclone fence blues. Overgrowth. I wouldn't open the blinds. Heavy deep sweat. Closing doors. Dying tomato plants. Some prospered, some failed.

Makes me wanna be like Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie in the Guardian today:

Yet as our car swerves to avoid the potholes on the road, I think how I love being home. I love this flawed place. I love that this is where my belonging is least contested; this is where I care the deepest.

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