Cupping your warm cheek in my callused hand, I think of my battered suitcases,

bursting at the seams once again

with news, notes, and negligence of all my responsibilities.

I know where I belong.

I belong on bustling trains, with my luggage modestly tucked between my knees,

and my train ticket nestled in a tattered Kerouac novel.

I belong in the North, swaddled in a parka amongst the grandeur of cathedrals,

the chill of the air scathing my raw lips.

I belong in the South, brushing the prairie dust from my leather boots outside of bars I’m not allowed in.

.

I belong by the seaside, witnessing musicians add delicate brush strokes to the budding sunset.

And yet, despite my tendency to flee, I was so unsure of where home was

until I met you.

For you are never ragged,

never worn,

even though I consistently choose to be.

-V. Wasylak