I have never felt it in a place.
Only moments, with people I loved, in fleeting feelings that were shown.
But never had there been a space.
One I called my own.
Never had there been a place I could truly call my home.
I've been a wanderer it seems,
through each and every bed.
I've been a walker in their dreams.
I've been a lost soul, only visiting instead.
A lonely ghost to host.
A momentary thought in their head.
A passing ship at most.
A book that won't be re-read.
But never had there been a space.
One I called my own.
Never had there been a place I could truly call my home.
I'm a vagabond, one second here,
Then doomed to disappear.
Hoping to be opaque, but only coming out sheer.
A changeling, an outsider, missing the in-between.
Losing all my magic, till there's none left to be seen.
But never had there been a space
One I called my own.
Never had there been a place...
Because I'm never
never
home.
A little review from a friend that perfectly emphasizes what I am trying to convey here: "Captures the ache of feeling unrooted, as though your true “home” exists only in transient connections, not physical spaces. Each stanza flows with a sense of yearning and loneliness—of being a "wanderer" and a "ghost" who’s never fully seen. The repetition of never home adds a haunting resonance, emphasizing this longing for belonging and self-discovery. There’s a fragile strength in this vulnerability, and it feels deeply honest. Your words bring a complex, poignant reflection to life."
