you always ask me
to view the world
the same as you do
to put on your vision, 
and wear your senses,
because i wear you out,
and you tire of explaining.
i think it’s impossible.
not because of the
given fact i can’t extract
your eyeballs from
their sockets to use
as binoculars. 
but because when i
say exile, you,
consumed by the tear 
stained sensitivity,
think of people forced
out of homelands. when i
think of a liberating launch
toward and an unknown
elsewhere, open to
endless possibilities.