Transit ions

I’ve lived ten years with no permanent home.
Just another home away from the first home.
And another until the people have become
Home. But then the people can change, too.
And so, over time, only confusion felt true.
Seneca wrote in a letter somewhere:
“To be everywhere is to be nowhere.”
I thought I had just left, but I’m still there.
Eventually, I have learned to live in
A tireless state of always missing
Some taste or someone or some thing.
I drift through sweet bitter familiar transitions,
Between the tearing apart and reconnections.
We are positive, negative — charged — ions
Flowing around, away, towards each other,
Never neutral, only change, maybe for better.