Yearning

I yearn for something that doesn't exist.
In any brick or leaf or road I come across.
I don't have a place in it.

Each new city beating to its own drum.
In which I step into with unmatched footsteps.

Instead

I look to each unknown land to console me.
With its own language.
To listen to each word it speaks.

I yearn for something that doesn't exist.
I am consoled by the isolated middle eastern night.
As I am consoled by imagined lives in foreign lands.
As I am consoled by slow bright lit mornings of the place I was born.
And now have returned to
As a foreigner.

Until I learn of all the languages and their own histories.
Until I find my own.