On a Plane Headed Home

Each time you fall in love with a new place,
you leave a piece of yourself behind.

A bit of your soul tucked into the hidden beach behind a maze of olive trees,
woven into the stiff pillowcase of a hostel bunkbed below the chatty Kiwis,

in the lost sweater on a subway barreling
toward the punk bar you danced in all night.

Travel makes your heart bigger,
fills it with people you never knew you were missing
and accents you’ll eventually stop hearing
because your world has become a mosaic,
more vast and reflective than you could’ve imagined,

by shattering you into a million pieces,

a collection of memories and moments and people
until eventually you no longer belong to one place,
no matter how hard you try.

Because whenever you’re wrapped into the warmth of another hello,
you’ll know it has only come from saying goodbye.

And when the scenery fades into the horizon,
passing trees blurring in your periphery like watercolors,
you’ll be homesick for where you are and aren’t at the same time,
longing for the comfort of your entire world existing in one place again,

so your heart might stop missing.