There are a few moments where I miss my hometown.

Fleeting moment, albeit; sprinting across the mind's eye when I'm shoving a sweater into undoubtedly the wrong location or taking a shit or trying to listen to someone talk.  It's the thought of driving down a road nestled between cornfields and smoking shitty weed that tends to come first.  Seventeen and on the precipice of actually having to try and appear somewhat responsible (or responsive?).  The location was the home with the least amount of parental oversight.  Vacations, divorce and neglect were the gifts of a God we hoped agreed with us; when the cats away, the coffee table book of substance abuse jumps from one lap to another.  Maybe tonight we'll find sex somewhere in that stupor of whiskey and mids.  Blow the smoke on your sweater so it doesn't smell like weed.  Not old enough for cigarettes but what's the lesser of two evils?

Even when I go back and race down the navel of those same cornfields; slipping uncomfortably in the back seat with the ghost-face-mask of youth and fingers crossed, it still escapes me.  I peak my nose in every bathroom at Denny's, every park bench, every shitty trailer that your parents scoffed at, every blackened Bud Light bottle.  It's not here anymore.