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January 18th 2017

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You said I was your home

And that is when I realized that home is not a place that smells of lit candles and fresh linens.

It is emotional

It is your favorite books or that song you listen to that makes you smile

It is the spaces between the fingers of a hand that hold yours and envelopes it in its warmth

It is a place of challenges, of growth

It is the thin line between comfort and discomfort where you find yourself and where you are going

Words like warm tea on your lips, whispering sweet stories of dreamers and dreams and futures

But when does this stop being home?

Is it when the space between your shoulder and your  cheek doesn’t seem to fit my head just right anymore?

Is it when lips grow colder and we grow older and stories of dreamers and dreams turn into stories of reality and fear?

Is it when the future grows more hazy and the line between comfort and discomfort is crossed and the books you loved are now collecting dust?

Does that song still make you smile now?

Am I still your home?

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