For a year I didn't write a single line,
Only laid side by side lines I wrote long ago,
Hoping they would fit together
Like seating children at a dinner table,
as if family.

The thing is, I thought poetry was leaving
Like coffee growing cold when left
untouched for too long;
Like a woman I love, slowly
falling out of love with me.

And all those months I was thinking
That this dream, this fire, this lust
Would simply die out,

But maybe, all along there was this truth
That just as all roads lead to Rome,
What's mine will always find its way
Back home.