I forgot the tea bags,
the ones I need for loose leaf tea.
Of course,
the tea I want
is the loose leaf,
taunting me in its neon pink tin
and its berry lemonade flavors
and I'm reminded of the empty bags at home
and the infusers
and the small contraption that does the work for me.

And then I miss home.

I forgot my sneakers,
which makes marching band rough.
Of course,
I went to the gym
in torn up Walmart shoes,
the knockoff Vans build
ripped at its edges
and they're not the supportive gray sneakers.
There was no other option for the pristine
dance studio floors.

And then I miss home.

I forgot my tea mug at home,
baby pink
and emblazoned with "Drama queen"
because of my years in theatre.
I see roommates with their collection of ceramic mugs
while I use a bowl
and hope for the best.
I rinse it out in the sink after every use
and watch its contents wash away.

And then I miss home.

I keep hearing things
or seeing things
that remind me
of my blue bedroom walls
or the small yippy dogs
or my brother
or my sister
or my father
or my mother
or the town.

And then I miss home.