I could write about the ocean
About the crashing waves calling me
The lulling roar
Of dissonant ambiance
Holding secrets under the tumultuous surface

I could write about the mountaintops
The serene scene miles above
Where the air is too pure for this imperfect soul
Where I have never felt more alive

I could write about the city
Where life never really stops
Where the skyline itself is a monument to human ingenuity
And the people are moving, always moving
As life goes on and on

I could write about any of these wonder-filled places
But my heart lives in the rolling plains
The seemingly infinite horizon
The hot summer days radiating off the pavement
The snow blanketing the smoothness of the landscape
Where the sunsets illuminate even my darkest hours
And the normality of suburban life is comforting

You always take for granted what you are born into
But my world has always been good land
Inhabited by good people
Warm hearts, genuine souls
And an appreciation for the lives around them
Where I've never seen a deer and an antelope play
Where I don't live on a farm
Where my childhood flourished
And my adulthood is burgeoning

Kansas
Like my own personal Shire
Perhaps one day I'll leave for an adventure
But I'll always return
To where the horizon reminds me
Of infinite possibilities

how lucky are we,
to be living in an earth
with a shadow so big
it could cover a blue moon
in a night sky so dark and wide,
that despite being hundreds of miles away from our families,
we still get to watch the same phenomenal sight that they too could see?

--and the grand canyon is
getting smaller behind you
while your heart is getting
bigger, ready to burst,
craving a return to the journey:
when red dust reflected on
your sunglasses instead of
your side mirrors, the rearview,
when the car mileage hadn't hit
halfway. something
about the southwest settles
under your skin like an itch.
it's almost like-- it feels like--
you're finally finding out that
this must be what it is to be
homesick.

Almost a year in this new city and things are still new to me.
I don't like it here.
I think about home quite often; the way the city lights of downtown trickled upon my face as I sped up in my car.
The bass of a song vibrating my body as I swerve under the bridge and onto the interstate.
The smell of the air as the heat rises off the pavement on a hot summer day.
The hug of my mother as the scent of Chanel perfume stains my clothes.
The laugh of my father as he tells a "dad" joke.

I'll be home soon.

so the love of my life is the sky,
so my secrets are at the bottom of wine bottles.
so my heart, my pure heart,
is resting under muscle and bone.
i keep praying to the cigarette smokers on the corner
and the girls covered in glitter and tequila salt.
the warmth found under my king sized comforter
on my twin sized bed
miles from truth and minutes from trouble
is stifling my lungs with falsities.

so the life i am living is not my own
so i've learned the beauty of the unknown
is nothing compared to the comfort
of my sister's eyes, my mother's laugh,
my back porch at sunset in the summer
where bare feet and cigarette smoke
prance around in the grass.

so the strong hands of strangers
pull me apart.
so i let them.
because i'm not here, i'm not anywhere,
except in the house at the end of the road
with hydrangeas lining the walkway
and familiar voices calling me home.

I'm homesick for a home I've never been.
Yearning for a place that is found on no map.
Longing for the nonexistent.

- forever a traveller.