My home is not your typical home.
It's not coming home to a home cooked meal,
It's not talking about your day and work,
It's about none of those.

Those have all been long outgrown,
Leaving nothing left to feel,
Yet mystery and caution always lurk
But looking at this "home" it never shows

My home isn't something quite normal,
It isn't even a room with a bed.
It's just you.
Your smell, your presence, your touch.

Although this was never anything formal,
Yet it's managed to fall on me like lead.
And I both hate and love you.
For doing this, and letting me think it were such