Home was having my best friend
hold my hair back
because I'd had one too many shots.

Home was listening to him
play a combination of notes
that told the stories of lovers' pasts.

Home was kissing a beautiful dark-haired girl
and laughing because
her saliva tasted like sativa.

Home was a place of sunshine,
peasant skirts, reggae.
Boys covered in dreadlocks smiling up at me from their yoga.

Home was falling asleep
on Vicodin
and sadness.

but now I am just lost.