Once we taste the world, it is hard to stay home. Yet then, the world is our home. But I think I understand you. I don’t know if what you feel is similar to what I feel. But even though we are not quite old, I start to feel a sort of awakening from this beautiful dream. A sort of sensation that every day may be the last, that is especially more potent with trips. How many more times will we get to see a dear friend in a distant land. Breathe the air, feel the humidity in our skin, be attacked by their mosquitoes (in your case sand flies) and feel the itch in our skin. The itch my kids will hate (I was recently in South America— I can see this evolving into a post) but for me are memories of summers in my grandparents house. And yet, home is the world, but also is the loved one, and also is a stranger hiding behind a mask who receives us as his/her/their own, the couple at the restaurant with which I engage in small talk. And I didn’t hate the small talk.
But the roads, right, Kerstin? The roads call our names. For you on a motorbike, for me on a bicycle. And the feeling of being close to the ones we love. Sometimes, they are just a piece of sky.

Sorry, this evolved in its own mind.
Thank you for that.
Thank you for sharing your poetry.
Pablo