This house still is not a home. 
Sure, all my stuff is here,
and I have even more than I did before;
which I've found is rare after a move.
I have things like freedom
and a spot in the garage.
A theatre major across the hall
who likes Portlandia as much as I do.
A giant mirror
leaning on the living room,
which I doubt Keiya will ever move.
Joe's Market is now a block away
instead of Matt Elliot,
who is the epitome of white trash.
And Mud Suckers,
where I can find a mean chai,
is just two blocks past that.
I have Dinkytown
and it's countless opportunities
within walking distance.

What makes a house a home, though,
is love.
Home is where the heart is
and my heart has no memories 
to help support itself here.
I haven't laid in this bed,
watching David Bowie
in The Labyrinth,
with my arms perfectly placed
in the chasms of another's architect;
I have yet to get lost,
in this now familiar place,
with someone
I am uncomfortably comfortable with.