Home is not a number on a street,
It’s not overlooking the city lights
or peeking its way through a roaring mountain.
It’s not built on a paved road
next to a building or a park with a yellow swing.
Home is where love has blossomed in the shattered windows,
Where wisdom lies in the rivers of the eyes,
And kindness in the scarred hands and grubby knees.
And although I wish home was in your arms,
Where kisses laid on injured palms,
And a hug from that four-letter name made everything better,
Let it be that home is the body that has collected dust for four years
And has sheltered itself from thunder.
Home ended up being her own cracked heart,
Where light still shines through and blasts a smile on her face once in a while.