Whereabouts

Lost by design, or by a paper crease?
You folded south into a new direction—
a river swallowed the road’s thin voice,
The compass shrugged and chose the wrong horizon.

You wander with a constant, honest ache.
A sunless map pressed to your ribs—
between a ridge and rumor’s sake 
you become a question often wondered:
Whereabouts?—a gap that draws nights thin.

A path is just a choice misplaced.
They tell the world you’re missing, 
you’ll learn what it is for a house to listen.