Home Is Not An Address

It isn’t the window where I watched the moor, Or the roof that keeps snow off the floor, It’s not the number printed on a letter, Home is the memories that keep us together. It’s the old fairytales my mama still tells, Belle, and the cave the beast still dwells. She taught me to listen to the beat in my chest— “Just wait for the spark, and let it do the rest.” It’s the unicorn sticker from my first big meet, or the hand that I gave to a man on the street. The scent of the toast we burnt Sunday morning, and my sister’s off-key, loud singing warnings. The movies we binged as we flew to the North— Home is the feeling that outlasts the worth, Of any room that's clean and precise, any hot-pot that’s missing the spice. It’s in the snow boots we kick by the door, In the candle I built by the drawer. It’s the fog on the glass that we always trace— Home isn't a building. It isn't a place. It’s us. And that’s more.