Home is Where I Am Me
I spot the word
“Home”
scribbled on a page.
What I see is you.
Not four walls
and not a roof.
No freshly painted door
or bright windows.
There are dreams of places, but they are not mine.
What is home?
Not a place anymore.
Not even my beloved country.
It is hidden in your face
and it is you.
Home is in your eyes
the warmest brown,
my favorite color.
Home is your hands.
To see them, to feel them
is to be safe and loved.
Your smile is mine.
When you laugh,
and your eyes squint with joy
my soul lights up.
When someone asks me
“where is home?”
I cannot think of anything
but you.