[a year old]

something caught in the back of your chest, just behind your lungs. tugging with longing until the sharp paint comes because it's tugging in a direction you cant follow. and whether you feel it with cold goosebumps in the woods or with dusty bare feet with the sun burning your skin, you know it's the same thing that called people from their families so long ago, searching for what had such a grip on their hearts.
sitting at the airport alone, looking at the detail of the weave of your suitcase with the chill of the air conditioning on your arms and back and at that moment, you can feel every sensation magnified a thousand times, like pressing on the edge of a knife. and somehow, the veil is thinner here, and all the distractions are seen apart from the reality and you realize something language has yet to comprehend.