The sun gently teased him from his slumber.
Still tired he slowly took in the room he had found refuge in.
An old burnt-orange Persian rug anchored the room, the worn fabric soft to the
raw soles of his feet.
books were stacked against the walls, in piles on the floor, scattered on the table.
Dust clinging to some of them.
A few mismatched chairs crowded a dark circular table,
a forgotten coffee jar, a pack of malboros and a few journals on top of it.
He was in solitude, unmoored and unhurried, watching the smoke rising from his cigarette.
A bossa nova song soaked in sun, sand and sea came through the old speakers.
The Soft guitar strokes carrying him back to a home he had not yet found.
Entrenched by the melody, he reached for his notebook.
He started writing, of desire, of longing, of love found but not held.
He had been drifting sometime, never knowing where the next day would take him,
what bed he’d wake in or with whom his next breakfast was shared. There was freedom in it, no ties to anywhere or anyone,
yet in quiet moments he wondered how it’d be to lay his head down somewhere.