Feb 2015
They say home is where the heart is and they couldn't be more correct.
You see, I ripped my heart out and handed it to you whilst it layed beating in your open palm, and that is where it remained - in your clutch for eternity, and that's why you will always be where I belong.
You will always be my destination.
You will always be my journey, my route. My souls compass and GPS system will always direct me to you - through backstreets and alley ways and sidewalks, across continents and oceans - my path will always lead back to you. My mind will always have your existence mentally stored as my address. Your name will always be my street, my road. I don't remember any prior location before you. You will always be the place I go to rest, you will always be the place I lay my head. and for that, you are home.
Home is not made of plaster and paint, or bricks and mortar. Home is the look you give me when our souls communicate via the emotion in the dilated pupils of our eyes, like portals to another realm where it's only us that exist; without having to exchange a single word, without having to part our mouth even a centimetre, without having to exhale or breathe.
Home is feeling our fingertips draw together in perfect unison as though they are polar opposites, possessing a magnetic force after being apart for so long.
Home is the way your body slides effortlessly into the shape of mine so perfectly like fate intended us to complete the other half of another like the universes favourite jigsaw puzzle and we knew we were missing pieces before we met but we had no idea we were pieces.
Home is the warm feeling of fulfilment and content that fills my fragile heart entirely at 6am when we are climbing upstairs to bed together with sleepy slanted eyes, greeted by the light of the world waking and the birds tweeting, as we are only now just laying to rest. Because that's how it works doesn't it? you and me. it's us and our world, on different terms to the rest. the sun and the moon dancing around the planet of our love.
You see, I ripped my heart out and handed it to you whilst it layed beating in your open palm, and that is where it remained - in your clutch for eternity, and that's why you will always be where I belong.
You will always be my destination.
You will always be my journey, my route. My souls compass and GPS system will always direct me to you - through backstreets and alley ways and sidewalks, across continents and oceans - my path will always lead back to you. My mind will always have your existence mentally stored as my address. Your name will always be my street, my road. I don't remember any prior location before you. You will always be the place I go to rest, you will always be the place I lay my head. and for that, you are home.
Home is not made of plaster and paint, or bricks and mortar. Home is the look you give me when our souls communicate via the emotion in the dilated pupils of our eyes, like portals to another realm where it's only us that exist; without having to exchange a single word, without having to part our mouth even a centimetre, without having to exhale or breathe.
Home is feeling our fingertips draw together in perfect unison as though they are polar opposites, possessing a magnetic force after being apart for so long.
Home is the way your body slides effortlessly into the shape of mine so perfectly like fate intended us to complete the other half of another like the universes favourite jigsaw puzzle and we knew we were missing pieces before we met but we had no idea we were pieces.
Home is the warm feeling of fulfilment and content that fills my fragile heart entirely at 6am when we are climbing upstairs to bed together with sleepy slanted eyes, greeted by the light of the world waking and the birds tweeting, as we are only now just laying to rest. Because that's how it works doesn't it? you and me. it's us and our world, on different terms to the rest. the sun and the moon dancing around the planet of our love.
