I’ve been away too long.
Not just from the place
but from me.

There’s a version of myself
somewhere in Florida,
still standing on the porch,
waiting for me to come back
and finish the story.

When I left,
I didn’t choose it.
I was sixteen,
following orders,
packing up things
I never wanted to leave behind.
Pieces of me
got scattered across the map
but the biggest one
stayed right there.

This place I’m in now,
it don’t feel like mine.
The sun hits different.
The air don’t hold memory.
Even the silence is unfamiliar.
Like I’m just borrowing life
instead of living it.

I don’t want to escape.
I just want to return.
To the streets that raised me,
to the past that never got closure,
to the roots that still call my name
like I’m overdue.

Going back
ain’t about comfort.
It’s about freedom.
It’s about walking the same streets
as a man this time
on my terms.
With all I’ve learned.
With nothing left unsaid.

I’ve had the brakes on
since I left.
But I’m ready now.
Not to rewind
but to reclaim.

Home isn’t just a place.
It’s where I start moving forward
for real.