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When you’re homesick for a person, you cannot find where you belong unless it’s with one another, making a dwelling in one another’s hearts, one another’s souls.

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“I wake early these days, and often I lug my equipment to different parks in Queens and spin around in the woods in a blue dress and remember what it was like to be 17 and stringing up paper stars in my basement.”

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Traveling has made me realize that home is not something we are born into – it is something we build.

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The thing about home is that it’s transitory. It changes as you change.

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I can’t see myself starting over somewhere else, I can’t see myself getting a random job just to live in another country, I can’t see myself suspending everything I valued yet again for uncertainty. More than it being a safe decision, it was the decision I just knew in my heart, logic aside, that I had to make.

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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.

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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.

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Gently, they clipped my dirty, rain-soaked wings from my shoulders. It was just so they could dry, they tried to assure me-but deep down I knew better.