I'M COMING HOME

Home, sweet home—after so many years away.  

I still taste the dust of that long road on my tongue.

Where do you really call home?  

What even is a home?  

Is it the place that comforts you when the world goes quiet?  

The patch of earth your parents chose and never left?  

A rented room with peeling paint and someone else’s ghosts?  

Or the house you poured your own sweat into—  

in the country stamped on your passport,  

or in some foreign land that finally said yes?

I’m coming home.  

Back to where I belong?  

Maybe.  

Maybe belonging is just the moment  

the key turns without thinking,  

and the air inside smells like it remembers you.

So tell me—  

where do you belong?  

Where is your home?  

I’m listening.