Where Is My Home

The sky stretches its vast blue hands,

catching my questions like falling stars—

each one a burning reminder

that heaven is supposed to be home.

They say the angels know the way,

that their wings carve paths

through the clouds,

straight to the doorstep of God.

But my feet stay planted in the earth,

watching their light fade

into a darkness I cannot name.

Is home written in constellations?

Do the stars spell my true name

in a language I’ve forgotten?

I trace their patterns with trembling fingers,

but the night stays silent.

Perhaps home is not a place

where the angels wait,

but the longing itself—

the way my soul stretches upward,

a bridge between mud and miracle,

between the weight of this world

and the weightlessness of the next.

I am still searching,

still whispering to the sky:

*If I am yours, why do I feel so far?*

The moon does not answer.

The wind only sighs.

And the stars keep burning,

quiet as prayers,

bright as the hope

that one day,

this wandering

will feel like return.