Home is not a place

I carried my home on my back for over two years and a half
I settled down, moved again, get a new place and moved again...
Then I started little rituals,
wine and jazz with friends,
dancing until death once a month at payback night
I even felt in love....

Four months ago I came back 'home' to Bogotá
only to find a small box with my favourite books,
some beloved objects, my old diaries
a collection of postcards and old photos...
unmaching clothes, abandoned brushes.
On my backpack I was carrying pretty much the same.

Almost all my friends are gone or live in a different city.
Now I drink my morning coffee alone
black, not sugar, and without mr handsome smiling over it

In my new house I have some borrowed furniture
curtains that don't match (and I don't like)
books and more books
my petit frere
and a luminous place surrounded by trees where I am a stranger

But I know that home is not a place...
It is a quality in the light
a smell...
it is the morning coffee served in my favourite mug
it is a kiss from my petit frere
it is that open book next to my bed
it is the dog I miss...
Yes, home is not a place
and now I am building it again
from little pieces that doesn't mach because some of them went missing