Never mine

In Colombia, displaced women demand their rights.

I sit here, rainy day, missing you.

I don’t know who you are exactly.

An amorphous collection, or loves.

The triumvirate – you are a country, a place, a smell.

One thing is for certain, you were never mine.

Slipped through my hands like sand on a windy day

I let you go.

When you left, abruptly, awkwardly –

Something of me traveled far, far away.

It fell asleep and when I called its name,

All I could see was you.

Give me back!, I cried.

But I was gone, in the pocket of your travels.