At this very moment I am supposed to be
thinking about something else,
but may I just ask,
Why is it that we are never really where we are?
Why do we always have a “somewhere else I’d rather be”?
I’ve never realized it until now,
but there’s something about far places that intrigued me.
Something about longing to be there.
I know that this could only mean one thing:
I am in search of solace.
Where do you find it?
Is it in the person you love?
In touching the soft wings of a dead butterfly?
In coffee? Cold floors?
In room full of roses and tulips?
Is it strange to find solace in a set of skeleton keys or blank notebooks and journals?
Sometime I wonder,
in my search for solace,
who will come with me,
when they all have
somewhere else they’d rather be?