living in the wrong place

To feel again, I remember, sometimes, those days. When colors were richer and salty water didn't fall so easy from these cloudy eyes. Dark lashes framing, blinking, but the pain.
The shell that is me now until I'm brought out by memories and music and earth moving swiftly beneath my feet. I think of those trees and the lakes and the roots half covered by decaying leaves from the previous autumn.
Heart pumping and lungs expanding and swirling oxygen saving me, somehow. Here where I don't belong.
And the weekends, I dread. The weight settles then, in my shoulders,
mostly.
His calls are a clean wisp, a slight lift,
but the unnecessary questioning of choices accompanies our conversations then.