On the trip to Poland,
I met a boy from Afghanistan
whose name meant the chosen one
And indeed he was
With one conversation,
my heart was over flowing with poems
His soul is so beautiful
He introduced me to the word musafir.
This word means guest in his native tongue
We spoke about how when you are an expat,
that is all you feel like
Everywhere in the world
He came to Holland as a refugee
Beautiful woke boy,
with his long eyelashes
talking about his desire to see his homeland
Saying he was only four when he left
and only knows stories his parents have told him
Says he misses a piece. He wants to go back if only to see it.
I think of myself, of how I only listened
to Spanish music all 16 hours of the trip
How I cried a little thinking about my mother and my cousins back home. How the more opportunities I seem to get, the more being far hurts. Everyone who knows me, knows that I used to be nothing but a mouth full of anger. coal on fire. They are days where I still am.
But I needed this distance.
I needed this ache.
I want to write about me, about him, about us.
About everyone that knows what its like to leave home with arms tied. Of dreaming of going back and making it right, even though we never got to see what was so wrong to begin with.
