…is your voice laboured thirteen hours away
…is whichever time-zone my phone is set to.
…is backwards and forwards.
…is an island in the Northern Hemisphere
…is a mentality, is transient, is wherever I feel I belong.
…settling. I refuse to settle.
…is Brooklyn, is Seattle, is distant Denver.
…is your front porch in Vancouver.
…is thunderstorms coming down the mountain.
…is cold beer and the football on Sunday afternoon.
…is a good pair of headphones.
…is thirty different places in six months.
…is anywhere I can make my own coffee.
…is stacking shelves in supermarkets,
…is the click-click-click of bike spokes on country roads.
…is my dead grandmothers house, and not the nursing home in which she died.
…was my dead grandmother.
…is the final minute of ‘Threads’ on a beach in Brooklyn.
…is the strum of a guitar, each chord reverberating across decades.
…is any one of my three iPods, although I prefer the newest.
…is the place I broke my camera lens.
…is the place I fractured my wrist when I was seven trying to do a backflip.
…is never being able to do a backflip.
…is the last page of a novel, and the first of the next.
…is a charity shop stockroom and the smell of old clothes.
…is grazed knees and bloody palms leaving stains on a cobbled driveway.
…is my parents place, now their home in retirement, my place no longer.
…is a strong Northern accent talking about the weather.
…is fish and chips and mushy peas and gravy and salt and vinegar and greasy hands.
…is anywhere I can sleep for the night, well or not.
…is somewhere in Georgia; I forget where.

Home is good vegan food and raised eyebrows.


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