On the car ride home with you
Me in the passenger seat
You, one hand on the wheel
The other in my hand.

We’re on the car ride home 
But we don’t know where home is. 
Home isn’t a place, but a feeling 
Home isn’t a house, but a warmth

On this car ride the sun is setting 
Half of my identity laid out across the sky
The other half creating the ground 

The green in the trees
black in the street
Grey in the sidewalks 
White in the lines separating the lanes

The crazy thing is on the car ride home
I see bits of myself in everything 
Yet I never see myself in anything 
Isn’t that strange?

No book or movie could uncover me
No media could understand an aroace lesbian 
No song could explain my life and feelings
Unless if I wrote it 

So I wrote this about a car ride home 
And maybe one day it’ll explain my home
My identity
Myself.