Home
They say home is a feeling,
then why do I yearn for walls —
on which I can hang frames of my happiness and sadness?
And now that I have curtains on my windows,
and a desk, and a door to lock.
Why do I want to crawl on the cool floor —
for warmth and love?
Is home even a thing?
Sometimes — most times — I believe it is an illusion.
But then why am I the one envisioning it?