We keep searching our entire lives,
For something precious that we lost,
Maybe even before time was born.
So we build homes in things we find,
As if to make up for that loss.
Maybe we carve comfortable every day,
Of our younger selves, lost somewhere,
Between turning twelve and seventeen,
And we search for people and places,
To recreate what once we knew and felt.
We could choose perhaps to
Pick and prune and cut into shape,
Build something proud and majestic,
Instead of the home we began to search for.
But sometimes, it happens simply, easily,
Like the heart chose and didn’t care,
Someone flawed, different, imperfect.
So then be change.
So what is it we search for,
In all the people we meet?
Some subconscious inkling of all the
Memories to be made,
Stories to be told,
Laughter that has not yet broken out.
Something magnetic perhaps that tells you,
you belong