Home has always been tricky to pinpoint on a map.
It's not quite where we came from last,
nor where we pay taxes.
It's not where we want to be,
or the house we grew up in, or the nostalgia we feel.
Home is not where our origins trace back to,
or where our ancestors developed our roots,
in fact, I'd argue
home is not an external location.
It's not the soft grass in our front yards,
it's not the countryside or cityscape,
it's not the wooden floors we collected dust on our socks in,
Home is a feeling.
It nests within us during our travels while we're looking for it,
it is present when we rest our head against a sunny window in the car.
It is here at work while we are making money for home,
it is here at the grocery store where we shop for home.
Home is in friendships where laughing makes you cry and crying makes you laugh,
it is in romance,
it is with family members.
Home is in familiar smells and easy living,
it is in solitude and fresh air,
it is a feeling of comfort inside of us,
where we can grab those fleeting moments,
and stitch them together like a grandiose stained glass window in a cathedral.
Home is a compilation of every place we have ever been,
are going to go, and where we are at presently.
What makes you feel at home?

There was a feeling by the name Romance,
who asked if I would like to dance,
but clumsy I
could not comply,
my legs fell off by pure mischance.