home used to be
a fire crackling,
the furnace roaring
the stack of books
piled up by my bedside
and home was the
creaking stairs,
my favorite hiding places
and the words i could not say
written gently on my wall-

that was home before

but who would've thought
that home could also exist
in the eyes of a beautiful boy
who hid my secrets
better than the space
behind the cupboard ever could-
who understood what was written
on my walls, engraved in my mind
even better than i ever could have

home used to be
the place i would run to
whenever the skies bled
in somber gray,
and i wonder why
i always end up running to you
every time