You won't visit my home.

You won't count the ravens eclipsing the sun.
You won't touch the weathered fibers of timber's corpse, in that great glade.
You won't lie down on the picnic blanket and laugh at the cumulonimbus.
You won't brush the others' hair out of your face when the wind picks up.
You won't get your jacket caught on the branches as you find your way home.
You won't lift up the rocks in search of companions.
You won't inhale the fresh pine air.
You won't wander down the gentle slopes that await beyond the trees.
You won't watch the sea be lit on fire.
You won't wait for the tides to recede.
You won't spot little urchins tucked into the crevices.
You won't whisper to her reflections, cutting through the waves.

I won't be able to take you there, or show it to you, or explain what it's like.
But maybe, when lips touch, or arms wrap around torso, or eyes meet, you'll know.

You'll see all of us, curled up next to you.
You'll hear the creaking floorboards.
You'll feel the warmth on your skin.
You'll sigh, content to exist in that moment, like I do.

After all, I take my home with me everywhere.

- Kala Sewi