[ poem  ]

Travel rituals when adulting
takes us to places
we’ve seldom thought about.

We make up ourselves,
from the core of our heart
to the edge of our conscience.
On some occasions,
it becomes tiresome-
You want to stop.

All the preparations we choose
to decore ourselves neat
becomes a mediocre practice.

We think about time;
How we trade youths
in finding ourselves.

All these years of adulting,
we seek togetherness but
lose grip on our belongings.

Who are we becoming?
Not just a traveller, right?