the water tastes different here, doesn't quite quench my thirst

there is a particular kind of weary
reserved for the traveler
who has not felt a familiar bed under his body
nor arm around it
for too long;
who has adapted to the water that tastes
more foreign with each mile
and the many colored dusts that line his throat
are his mementos
the things that change his voice
when he speaks of his extremes:
home
and motion;
there is a particular kind of weary
that is not weary at all
but a celebration, a dash, a victory
that is the traveler's wealth
that is the traveler's death