There is an ache sometimes when something beautiful finds your heart.
This ache (the final sound in a word as a poem crumples to ash inside your mouth,
the color the clouds wrinkle in the vast-drowning sky,
a story where sadness is embroidered in each note of its speakers voice)
is to remind you that
you were born somewhere else,
where that same beauty hangs on every wall, on every limb, on every eyelash.
Now it aches because
you’ve forgotten where it is and
how to get there.
But your homeland keeps reflecting itself here, searching
for you, and whenever you hear it, your
heart will long for where it’s been.