This is not a love poem
Home is
The feeling of sinking into the softest couch after standing for countless hours.
The cushions give under your weight,
Yielding to gravity, letting you sink towards the earth.
Home is
The smell of peppermint tea
And the feeling of warm pottery in your cool, dry hands.
And the way it feels to breathe in the gentle steam.
Home is
Driving in your car with the windows rolled down and the music turned up
The sun on your back and the wind in your hair
And the love of your life in the passenger seat.
Home is
Taking off your backpack after a long hike
A shoulder massage from your dearest friend
Being eaten out until your calves cramp with pleasure
Fresh baked challah bread from your grandma's recipie
The exact number of steps across your childhood bedroom
A song where you know every word by heart
Seeing your joy reflected in your best friend's smile
The smell of autumn
The taste of sugar on your tongue.
Home is
A pair of boots that fit your feet perfectly.
No matter where you take them.
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