But maybe...

I want home to be something tangible

I want it to be recognizable.

But sometimes it's so hard to hold onto something you want so much.

Every time I leave a place my chest grows heavy,

and I want to stay, I want to come back

but as soon as I'm gone, I can't even remember why I was there.

What it was that made me stay in the first place.

Every once in a while, there is something that reminds me of home.

The flowers that smell like my grandmas' porch on a July morning.

The screams of laughter from kids in a schoolyard like me, not so long ago.

I remember a hand that stroked my forehead until I was lulled to sleep.

But now, those things seem so far away.

When I go back to those places,

it doesn't feel like it did before.

Even those people are the same,

but I am not.

And I can't go back.

Home is not a street, a smell, a person even.

Some people make me feel at home, but it never lasts.

Only until they leave.

Or I do.

Maybe home is forward.

When I keep moving, I never think about what home is to me.

Maybe home is only a collection of memories,

constantly in the past.

Maybe I'll never find a home again,

maybe I'll never stop feeling this way.

But maybe,

but maybe...

home will find me.