You made homes out of people,
And now you’re here, homeless.
They say home is the place where your heart is,
So where do I go while you’re digging yours
and I’m still finding mine?
Home is all about finding a friend in your room mate and not missing your mother’s chicken curry beyond some regular wailing,
And in the city where they say you can catch dreams,
The clock ticks louder with every second minute
after the sky turns from Prussian blue to black to the orange
One sees at dawn after a crazy night,
And I, hopelessly romanticizing poetry out of the thinnest of air,
Lay upside down, staring at the two inch gap between the unwashed curtains
Of the window above the table that Ma would’ve told a hundred and one times to tidy.
But this isn’t home and Ma isn’t here
And so the table and the bed
and the way from the table to the bed
Remains messy, the way she dislikes,
The way it shouldn’t be, but is.
Rain in the corridors make me drop a tear
In the most unlikeliest of places I’ve ever been to,
Places within me I procrastinated to wander to,
And someone had rightly said something
about making yourself feel at home,
But tell me if you find it,
where is home?
I’ve been missing and healing
And humming and nodding,
Talking walks from the front gates
to the back lawn, to the café
To the exhibition hall,
To find nothing close to home.
But, one day, in a well ventilated room
in the midst of twenty something people,
With Rain outside and bliss inside,
The skin on my arms felt it,
The soothing trauma of goosebumps,
And now I knew, to warriors
What felt like coming home.
Home is where the heart is,
And I hope mine keeps beating here.