I want to go home but I don't have a home.

I live in the middle space between where you're driving from
and where you're driving to.
I live on backseats and inside large purses.

I live in vending machines
and beds you used to sleep in all the time
but don't sleep in anymore
because you moved away.

I live on driveways that got redone while you were gone,
and new haircuts you couldn't see because you weren't there.

I live on promises that we'll do something.

I live in those cool new sunglasses you got,
but they broke,
and I never got to see your wear them.

I live in the little space between you and your lover,
the one that feels like "I love you"
but really means
"I love you, but I'm not in love with you."

I live on unsatisfactory naps
and the island your friends put you on when you finally said what you'd been wanting to say.

I live under the rug when you complain about people behind their backs
because no one really knows how to tell someone they don't like them
for who they are...
as a person.

I live in every spare shoebox that isn't filled with notes
and gets jealous of the other shoeboxes that are filled with notes.

I live on the top bunk
and I've never fallen off

but I'm still kind of scared that I will one day.

I live on the laugh that lets me know you're still listening.  

I live where I never wanted to live,
but I live here,
because I choose to live here.
And you live there because you choose to live there,
even if it doesn't seem that way.

I'm here and you're there.
I'm here for you and you're there for me,
even if it doesn't seem that way.

This is where I live.
You should send me a letter some time.