People won't fall in love with you just because you are good at love

But isn't this what life is supposed to be about?

You tell me to follow my dreams but secretly hope theyre sensible enough to follow because God forbid it's unattainable and you end up alone and picky

Perhaps home is not where the heart is, but
in fleeting moments of glee,
and the joy of being free

Perhaps it looks like a person, the arms of your mother, or lover,

or no one at all—

Perhaps home lies in the passion the sun blinding the waves in the sea

Perhaps it's faded in tales that were never meant to be—

Perhaps it's time to rewrite what home means to me