But where was home?
Was home a building, a place, a time, a person?
Was home the warm smell of coffee brewing early in the morning
Or was home the clean smell of detergent on your pajama clothes late at night?
Was home the crisp smell of paper as you sat down to read or was home the stingy smell of ink leaking from the pen?
Was home even a smell,
Or was home the feel of your worn out comforter as you laid to rest each chilly evening?
Was home the feel of slippery tiles under your bare feet
Or was home the feel of fraying petals between your fingers?
Was home the view of the city lights outside arched windows
Or was home the view of green grass outside narrow ledges?
Maybe home was a time, a time to where you were more happy
Or a time to when your heart was more whole,
when those you thought you’d never lose were still by your side.
Was home your house, or was home the house where your grandparents lived
Where the air always felt lighter, and the stomach always fuller?
Perhaps home was the old coffee shop across the park where the people were always kind, or perhaps home was the library down the street where the stories never ended and magic was always within hand’s grasp.
Was home your country where the roads were always familiar
Or was home a foreign place, yet not explored?
Was home your mother who always calmed your heart, or was home your friend who stuck by you through thick and thin?
Was a home a building, a place, a time, or a person, yet not found?
How was anyone supposed to guide you to home
If you didn’t even know where home really was?