My fingers ache for land,
for dirt shoved under fingernails,
for names signed on paper,
for only our footprints leading up to the door.
My fingers ache for land while
my heart aches for quiet.
Am I destined to live a hermit on a hill,
the butt of a joke,
the dare in a childhood game?
Maybe you’ll be a hermit with me and
we can get lost in the art of love and survival,
which are sometimes different,
and sometimes the same.