Sometimes “home” is a place and a person,
but not one without the other.
“Home” is a face,
and a fireplace.
Sometimes “home is arms wrapped around your waist or hands clasped on a 6-hour road trip.
“Home” is a feeling;
Sometimes rare,
Sometimes one you can only come back to once in awhile,
And sometimes one you can come back to every night.
“Home” is a word.
“Home” is a neck, a chest, and a breathing pattern,
coffee-filled afternoons or bad habits in a messy room.
I miss home.
I hope home misses me too.

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