Home doesn’t always have to be four walls, some
windows and a dinner table.
Home can be a round-about in the middle of traffic,
at three A.M looking up at the stars, after getting
your fix from a joint sold to you by your best
friend.
Home can be running from shore to the depths of
the sea in summer. No stopping for air, no diving;
letting the sand fall beneath your feet the further in you go.
Home can be sitting up straight under
your blanket, in a dark room, in the middle of the day.
Crying rivers your imaginary friend will soak
themselves in, then laughing so hard the blanket
falls over your head onto your knees, revealing the
light of day to your eyes.
Home can be a heartbeat. The second one you
heard, right at birth. Eyes closed, fingers clenched
on theirs, ear pressed on their chest.
Home can be a heartbeat. The last one you want to
hear, the one you want to hear and feel and love for
the rest of your life. Even without it, you wonder if
your heart is in-sync with it; you convince your
mind it is, so you have home at your last breath.
Home can not be around. Home can be miles away,
not communicating with you, or only
communicating with you at the early hours of the
morning for one thing.
Home can be absent, but home will always be
home. My veins say so.
Amy Ymer is a writer from Victoria, Australia. You can find her writing on Instagram.