What is home?

What is home?
Home is this place. Home is his temporary apartment. Home is my house, but not specially my room, although it might become home back soon. My house's living room is more of a home now. His bed at his parents' house is home; his summer house's surroundings are home, home is coming to his dogs. Home is watching a TV series with my sister and the warmth under the sheets. Home is the sight of snow and the dream of a future surrounded by light and wood and color. What used to be home is not home anymore, and home is both transient and permanent places and experiences. Home is his first room outside his house and far away our town, home is the silence and calm I can find when I visit her after an hour trip. Home is his chest and his eyes. Home is a dream and a memory. Home is myself.