Intercontinental

Photo by Match Sùmàyà on Unsplash

Smoke billows from the incense stick, snaking its way to the ceiling.
In it is my mother, a whiff of home, a creature comfort calling.

Some spices smell like family, hidden in a nook or corner
Unfamiliar is this feeling; of adulthood likening you a foreigner.

The days go on, like clockwork they come routine clad
Keep pretending now, don’t let up on this grand charade.

Wake up, show up, do what is always expected.
Go home, or what should be home, alone and exhausted.

A little life you can build, a place to call your own.
Your new world with new friends, aren’t you still alone?