“What are you seeking?” I ask the traveler,
with his seasoned eyes
and rough-raison palms.
“I am seeking a land where my pulse
is just another bubble in the stream,
and my eyes do not dart from left to right,
left to right—and back again,
but can rest easy in the shade of a proverbial palm tree.
I am seeking a place where I do not feel all is right,
just to wake up in cold sweats months later at night,
that familiar tingle in my blistered toes,
telling me it’s time to run, to go.
But above all, I seek a place to hold my heart,
to make it feel light even in the dark,
and nourish it with the strength of the iris,
the warmth of the sunflower,
and the passion of the everlasting rose.
Then, I will no longer feel the need to roam.”
I stare at him, with my wide-eyes,
reach out with my pillowy palm,
and hold his hand, because he is lost.
With that small gesture,
a journey of sorts,
all his defenses are lost.
I drink him in,
like a mirage of water in the middle of a desert to which I’ve never been.
He is so beautiful
in a way I have never known.
I feel how our hands perfectly mold,
and do something riskier than traveling the globe,
I listen to my heart, I follow the pull of my bones:
“Perhaps none of what you seek can be found in a place,
but instead in the nuances of the right person’s face.”