You once told me that I was your home,
and I wrote it down so that I would never forget.
I clung to that wrinkled piece of paper by mistake,
like it was an extension of your heart.
But then I learned that paper can never wrap its arms around you,
or hold your hand in a crowd,
or dance with you on an empty dance floor.
I thought it could, but that was my mistake.
So now, when I’m not busying myself with missing what was good,
I remember what it really feels like.
I’m more at home all by myself.