BY VINCENT TEVNAN

To the individual who coined the phrase:

“Home is where the heart is,”

must have been thinking of the tangible.

A home where birthdays were held;

where it rained in the spring;

where it snowed in the winter;

where the autumnal leaves fell in

their hypnotizing manner.

But home can be invisible;

home can hide where it is never immediate.

In the corner of your eye;

in the most unsuspecting of places.

Home is where you wrap yourself around the one you love;

where you become intertwined with one another as you drift off to

sleep;

to dream dreams;

to wake up to a dream come true.

Home is the inner thought, where the memories are stored to be

projected again.

Change reel, play again.

Rewind, play again.

Change reel, play again.

Home is safety, and the comfortable normality of living in bliss.

The smallest memories that bleed through the walls;

The smiles, jokes, laughs, intimate moments that are contained within this infinitely small space in the galaxy.

Home is where I want to be;

in her arms.

In her room;

In that space;

In that dream.

I want to be home again; I am a nomad.

I want to be home again; I have lost a sense of direction

“Home is where the heart is,” I am homeless.


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