a house might not be a home

(where do you live?)
What a silly question, anyhow. I live wherever I go. I do not cease breathing the moment I step past my front door. I live, sprawled on the floor of my bedroom, or planted at my kitchen table; but also while on the road, in a plane, sitting at a desk or within a tent.

(what if I told you that I don't restrict living to my house, or that my house might not be my home?)
My home is the centre to which my heartstrings lead. If my homes count more than my fingers, it's not a crime - I carry a link to each one inside me. My home can be a dated hotel, a lonely campground, a beige dorm, or even a spot staked by 'SOLD' in red and white.

(who is holding me to my house?)
My home is where souls meet, pain becomes shared, warmth is spread; where hearts lie or cannot leave. It is the place that I return to. Once, or a hundred times. In person, or as a spirit. My feet run to home.