it's cliché to say that he feels like home, but his arms hold me up and shelter me like the literal roof over my head. a home is not always a house, so i can say his voice is the music that flows through the kitchen on a Saturday morning, or his eyes are the windows into a beautiful world, better than the one we live in. he listens to me night after night, just as the pages of the notebook that sits in my bedroom do. he is a safe haven, where i can retreat to after wracking my brain to find words that don't even make sense in my head but still somehow find their way onto my paper. i feel safe from the storm outside and i feel safe from the storm in my head. he fills me with a warmth that only he can bring, like the worn out blanket on my bed that i love so dearly, the thing i can't afford to lose. it might be cliché, and it might be overused, but i really think he feels like home.
if i even know what home feels like.