Home is the house you’ve grown up in.
Home is the bed your loved ones sleep in.
Home is ruined jeans and black, cotton tees.
Home is the arms of your lover.
Home is where you wake up thinking the light’s all wrong, but you slowly realize it’s all right.
Home is where you tiptoe at midnight to sneakily cook something unhealthy and find two people standing in the kitchen, teetering between pasta and potato chips.
Home is someone who understands all you mean by looking into your eyes, and saying everything in return with a squeeze of the hand.
Home is being stayed by silence, mind whirling in wonder at the way the world works.
Home is where you say you’ll push yourself to do what you’ve always wanted, and you do.
Home is where you can sleep the livelong day.
Home is a smell you can almost taste, but can never place.