Home

home
hōm/
noun
The place where one lives permanently.

I have never,

nor will I ever, water down my love for you to make another comfortable.
This is something I feel strongly about.
And this,
this is something I can guarantee.
Often times we can close our eyes and depending on what home is to someone,
they can explain it to you in vivid detail.
They can tell you the strength they feel when they move through their home.
They can tenderly give you a front row seat into what their home looks like.
At any moment,
a person can close their eyes and give you a front row movie preview of their home.
Last night,
I explained to you what my home felt like.
I explained to you my longing for my home.
Like a mug of hot chocolate awaits a winter’s night.
I explained to you my home.
So close your eyes with me.
Welcome to my home.
My home smells like what early Saturday morning feels like if you could place a smell on it at all.
Fresh cut grass, black coffee, and pancakes.
Hot Krispy Kreme donuts.
Smells like the way the scent of cinnamon trails upon your nose.
My home feels how chocolate tastes.
My home
gives me the relief after a late night pray before my curls even reach my pillow.
It gives me a covering.
My home gives me tender kisses deep in my hair when I’m frustrated and disgusted with the world.
It has distinct sounds of sweet hums and Anthony Hamilton playing as the shower runs.
It has finger tips that cools my hot temper.
My home is humble.
It is kind.
It is
magnificent.
My home reminds me of how a little girl feels when she sees Cinderella’s castle in person for the first time.
Reminds me of pop-tarts with butter.
The way my Papa used to make them.
Two toasted strawberry Pop-tarts, smothered in butter served with decaf coffee.
Three sweet-n-low’s and LOTS of creamer.
It feels like early morning cuddles while the alarm fades into the curtains
and sweet dreams of nothings.
My home is chocolate
and deep
and everything my father dreamed for me.
Him.
Have you ever had a home that had its own mind?
Had its own way of speaking to you.
My home speaks to my soul.
If I had all the time in the world I still could not explain to you my home.
But I can say my home makes me feel like how a distant memory still makes you smile randomly.
How the beach makes my heart sing.
How remaking corny infomercials with my father makes me laugh.
How chocolate cake gives me sinful pleasure.
I have never hidden the love I have for my home even when those around me are still finding bricks for their own.
My home is filled dreams
and things beyond my own imagination.
A KINGdom built for me.
My home is him.
He is where I have promised to live.
Permanently.

Speak on it

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