The only feeling I've ever seemed to be consistent with is the feeling like I'm missing something.

Home used to be a feeling, not a permanent residence but every time I leave school I live somewhere new. Home never got to be "home," I never had enough time.  

I think I left because I felt like the second you'd become home I'd be uprooted.

So I did what I did best, I moved.

And sometimes I still fall asleep to the memory of me collapsing on my bedroom floor and apologizing for telling you I loved you too soon.

But ten months apart and home isn't home, home isn't your skin on a Friday morning. Home isn't skipping class to feel the warmth of your sheets for just a few more hours.

Home feels like trying to remember your voice when you won't even look at me.