I do not think

There is such 

a thing as

A place,

A person,

A scent,

A sound

A touch,

A taste,

that I could link 

To what the faceless 

masses call home.

 

I do not think,

There is a version of me that exists,

Where home is something I have,

And not something I miss.

 

The past,

The present,

The future,

All in which 

I do not fit.

Drifting aimlessly 

from embrace to embrace,

From place to place,

From face to face,

Searching desperately 

for a space,

That has never been 

in the first place