I got paid and I was on my way,
169 miles southwest of where I lived,
few stops, smokes with strangers,
no shotgun, just a guitar on front seat,
sooner or later I knew you’d come,
burn my heart with your setting sun,
deflower me with leaves from your cherry tree,
oh how good it feels to be free.
they said I couldn’t be with ya,
you said you’d let me down,
3 cigarettes to ash my fear away,
one white, one green and one brown,
let me whisper in your ear,
and tell you how far from perfect you are my dear,
who cares when our hearts already sinned,
there’s no point in holding it in.
It’s weird to leave the place where you grew up.
And that too, so many times.
You gotta do what you gotta do I guess.
But I’ve realized something doing this again and again.
Home isn’t a place.
When someone asks me, where’s home for you, I can never answer. Is it where I grew up? Is it where I live currently? Is it where I went to college?
No. Home isn’t a place.
Home is a person.
Many persons in my case. My own people who are close to my heart wherever they may be in this world.
So wherever I am, I am home.
Because we are together.