A home is not defined by a mailbox at the end of the driveway
It is not made up of a white picket fence or a garden outside the front door
And its not something as simple as where you fall asleep
You might feel safe with the trees and you might be at peace with the waves
But that doesn’t make you fit to live among them
We were never meant to live in the celestial bodies above or below
And we’re not meant for our own skin
Home is the curve of her smile when she looks at you
Its about knowing her favorite words to wake up to
And your favorite words on her lips as you kiss her
Home is where her scent lingers on everything
Where you can still hear her laughter between the couch cushions
And knowing she is ticklish below her third rib but only on the left side
Its where you can still see her when you can’t remember what day it is
Home is where the eviction notice was nailed to the door
*~W.C.