There is no home without you.

I’ve come back to the house before, when you haven’t been here.

It’s a house, not a home, and it transforms the minute you get back.

Or before – before there was a you that became a part of us.

I lived in other places, other houses. I got along well enough,

fitting myself into spaces that accommodated me,

but that weren’t meant for me.

There’s a strain that can wear on you, over time, when you’re in those types of places.

The dull awkwardness of being tolerated.

Of being liked but not truly known.

The social niceties that come – the politeness and careful consideration (“Did you need me to move my things? Am I in your way?”)

The isolation it reinforces.

When we came together, there was a closeness. An ease.

With closeness came casualness – no politeness required.

No need to move my clutter, and to be in each other’s way was a part of our routine.

You are my counterpoint and my counterpart.

We somehow both mold to fit, and also hold space simultaneously.

The softest parts of you balance the harshest parts of me.

You are generous when I am selfish.

You are nurturing when I am preoccupied.

You can really piss me off.

(I warned you, in the early days. “Don’t roll over when we argue just to please me.”

I shouldn’t have worried)

You infuriate me with your hot takes, your contrarian arguments.

Your insistence, always, on playing devil’s advocate.

I have gone to bed angry more times than I can count.

And yet. You are always so ready to end the fight,

Once the anger burns out.

We don’t complete each other; we weren’t incomplete before.

Had we never met, we would each have found our own way.

Met other people, been happy.

But I’m happy it was you I met. I’m happy our ways go together.

Every part of you is a comfort to me.

I sleep best next to you.

We fit into each other’s lives and fill in each other’s gaps.

You are my home, because with you, wherever that is, I am home.