thirty-eight on me

It turns out, the longer you stay away, the harder it is to come back.  Even a (momentarily) forgotten password.

It turns out, radio silence isn't silent.  The clawing static is deafening.  At first you think of ways to quiet the din, but later it becomes a type of white noise you shout over, never noticing your rising voice, the hints of hysteria.

It turns out, thirty-eight is a quiet birthday.  A birthday blanketed in white snow and ice crystals.

It turns out, even at thirty-eight, that damn chocolate cake is still cursed --- this time it's a double dose of salt.  Cake was salvaged.... but ocean-y.

It turns out, that cake is the only thing that makes you curse. 

It turns out, you miss this creamy space something fierce.  The people in it, especially.