A Man With No Address

I have learned the art of leaving
before the walls begin to know my name.

Every city greets me kindly,
offers its lights and language,
a chair by the window,
and still, I keep my shoes on.

I am not unhappy.
I eat, I sleep, I smile when spoken to.
The sky above me is generous,
the road beneath me steady.

Yet something inside me
refuses to unpack.

I have chased horizons
that dissolved as I reached them,
held sunsets in my palms
that slipped into dusk.

People call it longing.
I call it a compass
pointing to nowhere
and everywhere at once.

I do not know what I seek,
only that it is not here
and not there either.

I am content with my bread,
yet hungry for a taste
I have never known.

Perhaps I am not searching for a place.
Perhaps I am waiting
for the moment
my soul finally sits down
and whispers,

This is enough.