you're not an apartment with white walls and a cheap fern. you're where i drink tea and read a book, where kids learn to play the piano, where the boys watch the game, where you write in your journal, where nails secure my pictures, where wednesday is laundry day, where we bake cookies and play scrabble on winter nights.
i always wanted the apartment with white walls. with a coffee maker and one mug. everything tidy and well-lit, with pale wooden tabletops. but that's not a kitchen where soup simmers all day or deep, late-night talks occur. that's not a kitchen i can put bowls of fruit on the counters or red on the walls. these things i had no idea i wanted until i found home.
and ever since i really found home, i've never wanted to leave.
