she is not home.

She is not home. She’ll never be. She is the safe house I go to, but not home. I feel safe, but I don’t feel that coziness, that heartwarming sensation I had at home. She is not where I grew up, that house to which I knew all the secrets, all the sounds it had to offer, and what made them. I knew the shortcuts, places to hide, and whenever I need to be alone, that secret room, abandoned long ago by anyone who isn’t me. And even though I know the address perfectly and still have a key, I can’t get into my home, because it’s not mine anymore. It’s not that I don’t like her, I do. She’s special, unique… but not home. She doesn’t bring the memories of my childhood friends, adventures, or the taste of my mother’s cooking. And I know, as much as I like exploring new houses, getting to know their secrets and sounds, and all those things that make them unlike any other house there is, there will never be another home.