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My home is in your arms. My home, is in your arms. I am at home when I am in your arms, and when you are away I can’t help but be homesick.
How can a person be a home? How can a person be a home, when a home is walls, and doors, and windows and portraits, and furniture, and so much baggage? You are my home; you are my furniture, my windows, my doors, and my portraits. You are the baggage I carry around, waiting to be found, by you.
The heart of it is that I’ve been lonely, a long time now. Maybe I’m hungry, or horny; I could say I’m tired. And, sure enough, all those things would be true. I’m listening to a song that breaks my heart, because feeling my heart break is the best I can do. It’s the most I can manage. It’s hard to simulate solace when there’s no one around.
