a quiet noticing

wander
— and then, the losing —
When I had no home
the walls I'd known grew quiet,
the keys I'd carried grew light.
I noticed, strangely,
that I was most at home.
A few months into the nomadic life — cities blurring, borders thinning,
in a hotel room
I did not own,
on a street I could not name —
somewhere between here and there
I was, at last,
at home with myself.
And you —
where does home
live inside you?
perhaps it was never a place at all.
AI with Fey