this is how it works

I feel small today, in the way that makes me want to sleep in blue hostel rooms and train cars smelling of cumin and wave goodbye to you and recede behind the Moroccan hills permanently burned into memory. I want sand and dunes and freezing cold showers and me when I was so far away and never going to return. I worry, sometimes, that I will always be like this - ready to jump, grass-stains and all, into the sublimely temporary. I worry I will never know where I belong - or, worse, that I already know and that I'll never go.