to be a
nomad.
have a soul
which has its bags
packed at all times
how many
skylines
has my poetry
twisted into its
own words,
flown along with
the Thames
and Seine
in equal measure
using wilderness
as an excuse for
the lack of
punctuation
and intertwined fingers
as a canvas for
syntax.
the number of
dreams
lost between sheets
and pillows
of hotels
whose names
I find hard
to remember
the heart used to have a home.
flung across oceans
and distanced
by barbed wires
of warring communities.
wars are no longer
external.
I could use
my fingertips
to count
the words
traced along
my waist
after love felt
sleepy.
and the heart felt
full.
this -
before the vagaries
of time and space
hollowed it out
left it thinking
of better times
and if they were even
real.
