paris smelled of piss
and london was a blur of faces and accents from places
i want to go to someday.
the only home i know is wherever there is snow
and i grew up in the tropics, sweating always
slipping, slick, from conversation to conversation
feet never still enough
eyes never here.
when i am abroad –
such a pretty way of saying ‘lost’
– i am no longer present
always seven steps ahead, always
looking for the next place i can want.
do nomads feel this way?
do they look for home in strangers’ eyes
for stories in their bent knees?
i used to think the world my pavement
the land just another carpet
my fears buried carefully at sea
but i am still looking for you
on buses and trains
in the faces of strangers who dare
and friends who don’t.
the air becomes heavier as i age
and my chest can bear so little now
so hurry

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