Homesick
I keep feeling, I want to go home,
even when I am already there,
even when the door is closed behind me
and everything is where it should be.
I sit in familiar spaces
like they belong to someone else,
like I have borrowed a life
that does not quite recognise me.
Because home is not this place,
not these walls,
not the rooms that hold my name
but never seem to hold me.
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Home is a feeling
I have never been able to stay inside.
It is safety without effort,
warmth without asking,
a quiet that does not echo back
everything I am trying to forget.
And I have been looking for it
in corners, in people, in moments
that almost felt like enough
but never stayed long enough
to become real.
So I keep carrying this ache,
this quiet, stubborn longing
that follows me everywhere,
even into the places
that are supposed to be mine.
And no one really sees it,
because how do you explain
that you are homesick
for something you have never had,
for a place that is not a place
but a feeling
that refuses to exist when you need it.
I keep thinking I want to go home,
and it hurts a little more each time
because I am starting to understand
that I don’t know where that is.
