For over seventeen years
of moving houses,
(streets, cities, and states)
I had no real understanding
of the word ‘home’.

I knew the definition
but only out of context.
Its connotation was as foreign
to me as that of being in love.

Then I met you,
and I felt your arms
wrapped around me
and your skin warming mine.

Instead of painted walls
and wooden floors,
my first home had shrouded eyes
and worn hands.
In place of hanging portraits,
he had fading memories.

I understand now.