Maybe you’re home, lying in that o-so-comfy bed of yours that made me never want to stop dreaming. Maybe you’re dreaming of me. Or maybe you’re at Barne’s and Noble acting like you love to hang out on a Saturday night instead of burying your face in a sci-fi novel and wonder is there is really another universe in that blanket of stars. Perhaps you’re at your best friends house, laughing at a movie you don’t really find funny but you’re too afraid to say you wish had a plot. Or possibly, you’re home looking at my picture, remembering the innocence of insecurity and doubt. Or maybe you’re drving around in the car that you worked so hard to pay for and now only use to get groceries for your underrated Mother. Maybe you’re drawing a portait of an African queen, whose face became mine realized it. You might be home with your sister, laughing at an old episode of Scrubs. Or maybe you’re home, writing all the places you think I’ve been. And the only place you’ll wish I was, is with you.