Now my days with you come to a close, I want to tell you that I’m very pleased to have known you. With you, I have grown.
Once you left you took a piece of me that I only shared with you. You made me realize you can’t build homes in people.
The delicate structure wasn’t suffice to hold us both
The neighbourhood is filled with such a meddling crowd
I remember when home was so easy to define.
When home was simply a house.
Four walls and a roof.
I trace the stitches of her leather couch, imagine myself in this other life. Would I be happy here? But as much as I try to imagine myself there, I can’t.
No matter where we go in the world and how much we explore, we take our places with us. It is a part of us as much as the hair on our heads and the prints on our fingers.
As I watched the lights, I couldn’t help but cry. Cry for the sounds and the absence of them. Cry for the places I’d been and called home. Cry for the hands I’d held, the hearts I’d broken, and the people I would one day leave behind.
You are my security, my savior. You are what I’ve always had, always cared for. Yet despite that, I still wish for you, day after day.
I used to get so drunk when I was eighteen years old that I wouldn’t remember
My own name
but I would always remember that I missed you.
My home is not one place, not rooted to where I was born or the words stamped to my ID. My home is infinite—all the places I’ve wandered, all the lessons I’ve learned, all the people I’ve kissed or loved or laughed with.