For the last two years, my home has been alive. Living. Two legs and the biggest, yet gentlest heart beat. A bright, beautiful smile, full of mischief and love and promise. Two sparkling eyes, with a hint of cheek and a whole lot of life. My home didn’t have an address. No, he was a wandering embrace that travelled spontaneously and often. I always knew where he was, and I was always home, even when physically I was hundreds or thousands of miles afar. My home became part of me, who I was, who I was to becoming. He lived inside my heart, knew where I was, why I laughed and cried, the thoughts that kept me up at night. My home knew me at the deepest level, as if only he had ever seen the bottom of the iceberg.

As I cry at the world, I long to go home. But distance never stole my home, so why should this? I may never feel the safety of his arms. Physically. But my home still exists within me. He still knows who I was, why I was that person, the songs that made me cry and the stories that made me laugh. He didn’t know me before we met, and now he won’t know me after. But during he knew me better than I knew myself. I knew the purest form of the love he gave me, and me to him, and that is something that after cannot steal from me.

My home is not gone. He is simply different, a soul instead of a beating heart. In some ways I know that is equally as special as it is painful, because there is a version of him and I frozen in time. Forever. He both knew me, and will know me for the rest of my life. A pain I wish upon no-one, but a reprieve knowing I will always have my home in my head, my heart and the person I will become.