Living in the shadows of another man's war, we walk together down a quiet, empty street at night, where the silence is full of snipers and the facades are smooth with the absence of bullet holes.
Living in the shadows of another man's war, a woman with emerald eyes and caramel skin, in a richly patterned Eastern shroud stuffed into a donated ski jacket, asks me whether this bus is going to a place she struggles to pronounce.
Living in the shadows of another man's war, the children in the seats ahead of me laugh in a new language, part mine, part theirs.
I get lost in their laughter, the salve that soothes nightmares of mothers and children running from their homes with only one wish that turns other men's wars into my own.
Written in solidarity with all people who dream of safety.