It is not the things we have that tell us what we are

It is not the things we have that tell us who we are, but what we long for and never seem to find.

I know I carry a poor woman’s heart: barefoot, starving, never able to be still.

I know I am not what little I hold: large brown eyes, a mole upon my cheek, an empty space beside my heart that was never a home for me or for you.

I am made of what I ache for and never comes: the words you never write, the moments without distance where I could feel you with my broken hands.