No Matter How Far I Wander, I Still Find Myself Returning Home

It occurred to me that I have a real, serious problem
with jet-setting across the world.
I’ve fallen in love with watching flight prices
more than I have loved one person.
The moment I see a flight for a cheap price, I’ll book it.
I don’t care where it is to
or who I will be there to see, but I book it because I want to
get away.

I used to book flights after a break up.
I thought that maybe if I hopped a plane,
landed somewhere warm and without cell service,
I would no longer think about my ex.
It always worked.

But now, the more often I do this,
and the less break ups I go through,
I wonder if I book flights because there are other
demons of mine I’m unwilling to face
or if I enjoy the process of getting lost in another city,
just so I can find myself over and over again.

I dream about living around the world,
yet I find ways to tie myself to this city and then
yield an ungodly amount of time out of the country.
I dream about exploring places I haven’t seen
and re-exploring places I’ve been
with friends I made along the way
but I still tell my new friends that I’m from here.

And every time I return home, I realize
how good it feels to be
home.
At least for a brief amount of time.
And so all of this travel around the world
has still brought me back
to the same dead city.
And as I get older, I’ve discovered
that this same dead city is the city
that still carries my heart each time I fly somewhere new.
I’m not sure if it will ever let my heart go
because I find myself still returning home.