Sometimes They Call It Wanderlust

A Poem

I am imagining myself away again,
imagining a me in new locations,
filling spaces I can’t satisfy myself.
New views will fix all wounds
a house on the Pacific, an apartment in Madrid.
I traveled there once, thought it would
heal something in me. It didn’t.
Only left me wanting more, the way
fickle lovers do.
This is not to say I’m unhappy.
No. But restless? Restless.
Like a sunset of leaves…