We spread the map on the floor, floor
where the patterns of the rug, rug
tell stories of wanderers lost, lost
in search of a place not found.

Your voice, an echo, echo
in the silence of the walls, walls
where whispers linger, linger
like shadows of forgotten calls.

The address slips away, away
like sand through fingers, fingers
and we stand with questions, questions
left unanswered by the wind.

Yet here we rest, rest
on the woven tales, tales
realizing that the heart, heart
need not return to be whole.