I don’t think I know what home feels like yet

Maybe home is a lone, weathered bench
Tucked beneath a canopy of trees in Central Park
It might be in the enticing neon of Tokyo
Its electric fingers beckoning me to get lost in them
I see it in my unruly bedroom
In the familiar scent interlaced in the fabric of my sheets

But how would I know, right?

Maybe home is burying my head in the crook of your arm
Letting the steady rhythm of your breathing lull me to sleep
It might be when you laugh at my jokes
Your nose crinkling up, your head thrown back
I see it in the way the very earth holds its breath
Just to listen to you speak

But how would I know, right?