Home was.

Home was not where I walked through the door.

Home was where I stumbled into your arms, and rested my cheek against your neck.

Home was not where I came home after a trying day.

Home was the spot next to you where I sat, and relieved the shackles of too long a day spent.

Home was not in the daytime, where I meandered across the floor in search of productivity and purpose.

Home was the night, doing nothing but absorbing your glance, feeling purpose in your stare.

Home was not a place.

Home was a you, and I never felt like I could get there quick enough.

Home was not lazy Sundays, cereal, and the sounds of cars outside.

Home was listening to your steady heart, racing the sun back to my house, and more often than not, a groggy following morning.

Home was not sound ridden.

Home was your secure embrace, and the strange quiet I was able to find in the mess that was my mind.

Home was not the reliable couch you became part of at the end of the day.

Home was feeling alive and safe simultaneously. Home was standing on the edge of a cliff, but leaning against your forearms and feeling your head upon my shoulder. Unshakeable.

Home was not an address.

Home was any direction we took, and the zip code was our license plates.

You sighed. You pulled me close. I sighed.

Words, timid at first, confidently finished, escaped from you.

"What does this feel like to you?"

I leaned into every bit of you and sank in.

"It feels like home."

.K SG C.