The day I left, I forgot to pack self-consciousness.
It was all too easy to reach into the mirror
and pull out my imperfections like saltwater taffy.
Then I ate them.
I wondered as I boarded the plane,
I wondered why my hands weren’t clenched in unrevealing fists,
I wondered why my eyes didn’t flicker to the person
behind me in front of me to my left to my right over here over there.
Perhaps my eyes were now focused on the clouds above and new lands below.

The day I left, I neglected to pack loneliness.
I roamed a new city, so alive, my lungs made room for more crisp
cigarette-infused air and I sat on the steps of a grand opera hall for hours
watching people walk, talk, listen, look, shop, love, learn, pretend, remember.
I understood why my arms did not ache
from the strain of carrying this lonesomeness,
I understood why there was so much beauty
in being a person submerged among thousands of people.
I realized it was a privilege I had been abusing for far too long.

The day I left, I refused to pack fear.
It unsettled my stomach and dampened most of the fun.
I left it there, tucked and stowed neatly away under my plane seat,
sending it back to where I came from and hoping
that the flight attendants would do a thorough cleaning.
I realized why some people got lost on purpose,
that there was fearlessness in not knowing
your north from south from west from east.

The day I came back, I carried
another missing piece of my vagabond heart.
I found it drifting in the strains of a street musician’s Vivaldi,
found it etched into the wooden signs above cafes and bakeries
found it in the spitting passion of lips and linguistics.
I recognized the part of me that was scattered across continents
and I brought it back home.