Home is Saturday morning curled up on the chaise half of my sectional with a homemade chai tea and recapping Friday night; wrapped up in a knitted cream throw, second day curls, the stress in my shoulders sinking from my shoulders and back into the microfiber.
Home is Wednesday night, when we wrap ourselves in bed, and I take hold of you like a helium balloon threatening to take flight, too afraid to let you go; I ask about your past loves, your past life, the life before me, because I desperately want to know every little detail that turned you my forever.
Home is Sunday evening, hanging hand painted canvases on my no-longer-bare apartment walls. Creating a home.
Home is not always a place. It is a feeling. It is people. I'm lucky enough to have found my home with many people, in many places, with so many feelings.