A House Is Not A Home

I walk my path in the deadly silence of the night, 
I search the stars, the moon, and all the shadows for an escape. 

I'm being crushed underneath thousands of roses. 
I'm being suffocated by all the crimson and black petals.
So beautiful and delicate as I choke on them. 
I'm drowning in the scents from my past
I'm blinded by the flitting moments I captured with my phone. 

Every place I go is unique and different, 
and I've learned to see the subtle differences from place to place. 
It hurts, because I know that here will never be there, 
now will never be then, 
and a house cannot imitate a home. 

Home is the smell of roses after rain
Home is the wet sand clinging to my skin
Home is freezing waves crashing onto the shore
Home is raindrops sliding down the cold glass
Home is picking daisies in June
Home is the way the concrete feels on my feet
Home is ferns and blackberry bushes
Home is a muddy lake marked by footprints
Home is white butterflies
Home is the torrential rainpour as the heavens grieve
Home is the sunrise reflecting across the still river. 

Home is memories
Home is people...
not people, friends. 
Home is friends. 

My house is not a home, 
here is not there, 
and now will never be then. 

I left my heart behind in the evergreen forests. 
I left my soul behind in the stormy waves
I left my spirit behind concrete walls and old mistakes. 

Roses taste different when you're choking on them. 
Rain feels different when you're drowning in it. 
Stars look different when you're blinded by them. 
Thunder sounds different when you're deafened by it. 
And pasts smell different when you're burning them. 

My house is not a home.