They say that Home is where the heart is. 

That may be well and good, 

But truth be told,

As I grow old,

I think they misunderstood.

My heart resides with family, with lovers, and with friends.

My heart, this heart, is tied to each and every one of them.

Right now my heart is here, singing in the rain

But it seems my heart’s been ripped apart

And will never be the same. 

If home is where the heart is

And mine’s both here and there,

Then where, my dear, 

Is fair? I fear

I’m broken either way.

My home is where my heart is,

But things become less clear.

I love my home and far I’ve roamed,

But I also have family here.

Maybe home’s not where the heart is.

Perhaps we’ve been mistaken.

Could home be known as where we’ve grown

Or is it just the bed we wake in?

And how does a house become a home?
Surely it takes quite some time.

But all the same, I’ve made my claim

In a place I’d hardly even known.

So tell me, what is the difference then,

Between a mansion and a den?

If homes and houses and hearts are distinct,

Then why have we thought of them as linked?

 

No, Home may not be where the heart is.

This, I see so clearly now.

If home is what you make of it

Then home is my here and now.