All along, I thought home was a person but I was wrong.
Home is not a person nor a place after all. Home is a feeling and sometimes, a vision. It can also be a blanket, securing you tight – keeping you warm.
Home is whenever I look at you, I see my future. I see a small but humble house with wide windows and fresh air. There’s a small garden outside with a little girl smelling the roses and a much younger boy playing ball.
Home is the smell of salad, tuna and ranch dressing and home is also the smell of fried and greasy chicken. We devour each and mock each other’s favorites.
Home is the smell of your skin, reminding me that you are alive and not just blood and bones hugging me in the night. Home is the feel of your warm flesh above me, kissing my worries away.
Home is his smile, clawing inside of me – making me feel things I haven’t felt before.
Home isn’t perfect – we fight, argue and tend to have a lot of differences but home is lovely and genuine and passionate which kind of makes things better.
Home is weird and usually tells me stories about space, technology and the future. He is very cute and adorable when he does that but I don’t tell him that – it’s my little secret. I hope he only does it with me.
Home is everything I have ever prayed for since I was a kid and prayed for again when my heart broke for the first time. Home is in my prayers when I was breaking down and in my wishes when I was staring at the mirror – praying someone will love me too much just like I do.
Home is within my reach, finally.
Home is here.
Home is when I’m with him.
Little does he know, no matter how far or how long I stray, I will always go home.
To my home, happy birthday.
I love you.