My bags are packed—warm clothes folded.
I have four walls,
a bed I share with someone I love—
more than most can currently claim.
And still, I’d trade half of it
for the feeling of dirt beneath my nails,
and a quiet place to plant something
that wouldn’t be stepped on
by government-issued boots.
Oh, to follow the hush that calls me
down a dirt road that remembers my name.
To hear tires hum against gravel,
and chase a pink sun
stretched like memory across the sky.
It’s hard to utter homesick
when others are just plain sick.
But I’m sick for stillness—
for the ground to stop trembling,
for the sky to clear its ashy throat,
and let the sun fall
the way it used to.