Home is not a place.

It’s a smile, after

a compliment,

and it gets wider

when I tell him

I like it.

Home is not a place.

It’s his voice;

every word is a lyric,

that I’ll memorise,

so I can say it all

back to him.

Home is not a place.

It’s a kiss,

or a series of them,

soft and warm,

and comforting -

I’ll never get tired of it.

Home is not a place.

It’s his eyes,

the prettiest shade

I have ever seen.

They draw me in

every single time.

Home is not a place.

It’s him.

Every single part of him.

He makes the world melt away,

and I hope he knows -

since he is my home -

that I’m here to stay.