I never unpacked my suitcase.
People without a home do that—
we treat places like passing thoughts,
and hearts like temporary shelters.
Always ready to leave,
always prepared for absence.

In the labyrinth of my wanderings,
where even shadows hesitate to follow,
I thought I found you—
a pause in my endless sentence,
a flicker of warmth in my wintered veins.
I made you my home,
as if love could be more than a beautiful delusion,
as if hearts weren’t just rented rooms
in a collapsing building.

But what foolishness—
to think you could be more than a moment,
to believe in permanence
when even my own reflection leaves me.
Some of us are born to drift,
to write poems in the language of loss,
to collect addresses we’ll never return to.

I realized too late,
I was destined to be homeless.
Not just in the world,
but inside myself.
Dragging this suitcase of unspoken words,
through cities that forgot my name
before I even arrived.

Now, I carry you
like a bitter aftertaste of hope,
pressed between the empty pages
of a diary I stopped writing in,
because what’s the point?
The words always leave too.