A nomad without a place to call home.
On a one-way flight from Malta to London.
That was 10 years ago.
10 years of rented accommodations,
including that shabby one in the heart of Camden.
Of strangers who stayed strangers.
Of one stranger who became more.
More than more. Morer.
We lost it all to a global pandemic.
The freedom, the laughter, parts of us.
Chunks, lumps, pieces of who we once were.
Away from the city all gypsies flock to,
the crowds buffering the loneliness,
neon lights dissipating the obvious.
We need a home, it's time
to paint the walls
to rediscover
Something else entirely.
It's called growing up, apparently.
Peter Pan, high up in the clouds, smiles.
Can we say we finally made it?
Ceiling, doors, floors, echoing
memories of the future.
A thought on the train -
Am I no longer a "zingara"
even if I'm still a little bit lost?
Do these four walls define us, or
did we just find enough chunks and pieces
to rebuild a version of who we once were?
Free.
Laughing.
Mended.