home.

because sometimes ‘i miss you’ sounds like ‘come home’

they say home is where the heart is,

but mine keeps mailing postcards

from a dozen different cities—

and none of them have my name on the mailbox.

i’ve left pieces of it

in a voice note that said “made me think of you,”

in a bus window where the sky looked exactly like my mother’s hug,

in the girl who held my hand when the results came in

and didn’t say “it’ll be okay”—she just stayed.

some say home is a person.

but people leave.

or worse,

they stay and stop seeing you.

i’ve had homes that looked like Friday night laughter.

like “try this, you’ll love it.”

like a borrowed hoodie that still smells like safety.

like someone remembering how you take your tea

without having to ask.

home is “text me when you reach.”

home is the cashier who compliments your nails

and you think about it all week.

home is “you made my day better.”

even if it was just because you smiled.

sometimes i sit in my own room

and feel like a guest in my own body.

like i’m hosting a version of me

i don’t fully recognize.

so where is home?

it’s everyone i love.

the ones who knew me in braids and band-aids.

the ones who never called me “too much.”

the ones who held space when there were no right words.

the ones i still write poems for,

even if they’ll never read them.

"home is not a place, it's how someone says your name."

"home is the one who listens to your silences without asking them to speak."

"home is everyone you didn’t have to become smaller for."

and god, maybe that’s why it hurts.

because you can’t pack people into a suitcase.

you can’t hang a picture of a feeling.

but still—

when they laugh,

and you laugh too,

and the air feels lighter than grief has ever allowed—

that’s it.

that’s home.