by Abbie DeHaas

Home is
It’s a taste
It’s a glimpse
It’s your head
On someone’s chest

It’s the spot between the familiar
And the unfamiliar.
And you’re walking, walking,
Searching for your place
Your feet grope their way
And you sort of know the streets
Just enough to guess
Turn right here
Left there
Right again
There’s a landmark I recognize
I know this place
I came here once with him.
And just past that coffee shop
Is where we all stood, laughing,
For an hour after the show
Because we didn’t want to say goodbye.
Not yet.

Home is those places in-between
It’s the “not there,
Not yet.”
Past the coffee shop
Where you stood with people you love
And that neighborhood
Where you walked with him.
You don't remember what you talked
Or laughed about
You remember
When he brushed your arm with the back of his hand
And when you glanced around the circle
Of your friends
Swearing you’d remember this feeling.
And eight months,
Or three months, later,
You still do.
You find your apartment.

Home isn’t
It’s not where you live
It’s not where you know
It’s wherever you go
After you’re lost.

Thumbnail image by Evelyn Stetzer.