Home is the crunchy sound of fragmented leaves fracturing under the pressure of my boots.
Home is the warm amber of the sun hitting the mountains just right.
Home are the strings of a guitar anxiously waiting to be touched.
Home is the coffee stem in the early hours of the morning, gently brushing against the glass window.
Home are my feet burning, my head stone-still, my heart spinning and the blood pumping vigorously up and down the vein stream.
Home is the worn-out red of a backpack loudly whispering to be filled to the brim.
Home is the sound of a familiar voice in the distance, one you thought you had erased from memory, one you realize you could never leave behind.
Home are the seasoned pages of a children’s book that keep reminding you of the sweetness of reality.
Home are the soothing words of a not-so stranger spilling over with kindness and raw vulnerability and motherly nurture.
Home is the tenderness of a delicate hand softly asking to be held, unveiling the world as a gigantic playground and you can swing, swing, swing until you have caressed the clouds with childlike wonder.
Home is everywhere I walk, everyone I love, every scent I breathe in.