love
it leaks a part of you stored away and forgotten
the joy of finding that spillage
is like seeing money in a pocket of an old trouser
on a day you’re very broke
everyone in your world becomes a stranger
whose strange language of caution is unintelligible
love is a button that when pressed, momentarily pauses your inclination to overthink every issue,
like an open window inviting you to cast out all your cares and burdens
it’s like an itchy part of you your hands cannot reach, being stroked gently by a kind stranger,
satisfying like the first rains in the year on thirsty plants and lands sleeping under blankets of dust and heat
Diary of a Wanderer 
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