You spend your nights in the company of melancholy
playing the music just loud enough to convince your thoughts
to not drift too far away,
drifting your fingers through the flames of a burning candle
just to make sure you can feel anything at all.
You tell yourself you’re happy and not something else,
but happiness isn’t a constant state of being.
It’s an emotion, that comes and goes as fast as
the gas in the car you drive for miles and miles
searching for somewhere, for something, that
makes you feel like you belong.
But home is not always a house, sometimes home
is many houses.
And sometimes home is the many people inside
the houses, or one person and no house at all.
Or maybe it’s just you.