Not From Here

There is a silence deeper than sleep—

a longing that hums beneath my ribs,

like a name I once knew

but forgot how to speak.

I walk with tears that never fall,

with a hole in my chest,

in my throat—an ache shaped like elsewhere.

I miss a home

that doesn’t live on any map,

a place where the sky

knows the sound of my soul,

and the wind wraps me

in something older than time.

This world feels borrowed—

the colors not quite right,

the ground never fully mine.

But still, I search,

devotion burning in my bones,

for the embrace

that will remember me

back into myself.

I yearn

not for a person,

but for a belonging—

for the arms of the universe

to hold me,

and whisper:

You were never lost.

You were only remembering.

Olga Schembri ©