When I Miss Home

When I say I miss home, I mean, I don't miss the four walls and the roof that held me safe but I miss how the November setting sun casted shadow in a certain angle on my bedroom wall, leaving imprints lasting for just minutes everyday.

When I say I miss home, I mean, I don't miss the tiles in the house but I miss how I knew the way around the whole place even in the dark and my eyes blindfolded, walking through every nook and corner like a muscle memory.

When I say I miss home, I mean, I don't miss the materialistic things that made home, home, but I miss how coming home after a bad day really felt like coming home. I miss it's invisible hug in the form of moonlight falling on my bed, beautiful clouds waiting outside my window, prettiest sunsets ever and the silence of the nights with street dogs barking on random vehicles.

When I say I miss home, I mean, I miss all of this and more. I miss me.