Travelling Home

You are like a foreign country.

I do not speak your language.

Drowning in your eyes, which I can not read.

What you do, goes right through me,

cuts me open,

I think, I might lose myself

in you, which is a story about you,

which is myself?

The first time we sat in a train,

you sat across from me &

told me about your life. I knew,

I would rather not leave the  train

again, ever. What feels like home?

Is it home? Riding around Berlin in a train,

listening to your story,

swimming in your eyes away from

what I knew as home, but was not.

Never could be, because I moved in,

when I was a stranger to myself.

Every plastic flower on the table,

in the vietnamese restaurant, remember?

was the most beautiful thing, I

ever laid my eyes on. Of course

you. The shabby plastic table itself.

The pho was very good! Best soup,

I ever tasted, while locking myself into your universe.

You are like a foreign country.

I travel you, and while getting lost,

I find so much about myself,

I never knew existed. What is love?

How should I know? I never knew myself.

Every home I ever  lived in

was occupied by a person

pretending to be me.

What is love?

Maybe a beautiful idea, about another,

so you can become more of yourself.

(c) Susanne Becker