It is a slippery word
Tumbling so quickly from your lips
You don’t have time to figure it out.
A place talked about so much in your present,
Yet nearly always referring to the future
A place where you will soon be
A place where you dream to be
A place where you are not.
When away, it is romanticised; the place of your true self
Somewhere individual to you,
Yours to dream of.
When you are there, elsewhere is romanticised; to a place of your true self
Somewhere individual to you,
Yours to dream of.
Your legs weep and your eyes ache
On your continuous chase of it,
Of a place where there is no sadness but love.
No loneliness but company.
No harshness but warmth.
But,
It is a space of the present,
Not a dream of tomorrow.
It doesn’t have to be a destination, always being chased:
A house,
A street,
A bedroom,
Old chair,
Always a train ride away.
It is love, company, warmth,
A walk,
A favourite drink,
A person,
Hug,
Flowers,
Mug,
A smell,
Blue skies,
It is home
And home is here.
Millie Law