The Traveller

I’m waiting
in a seat across the road
somewhere far away
legs swaying
and fingers dancing through my hair
watching the world happen
as though I’ve opened a book midway –
reading the story of people madly dislocated from one another
roaming in search of something
that will make them feel

They carry storms
that they hide away in the linings of their pockets
and they’ve gotten used to flowers that never bloom
because they’ve taken all the rain
to feed their loneliness
while they bend and fold their hands and bodies
like vines that can’t escape the process of braiding
for fear that they may stop climbing

They touch with lips that say nothing
while building dreams
out of wax and anxiousness
molded into castles that kiss the heavens
and when sunrise comes
it all unravels
and still
they’ll try to sew their world back together
with thread made of longing
running them like veins
across their hearts
and still
they’ll try
like Icarus –
even if they drown
at least they’ll drown together.


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