“He Was My Home” is one of the most personal songs I’ve ever written. It came from a point in my life where I truly believed I’d found someone who saw me—really saw me. The kind of man who walks into your world soft and calm, and suddenly every guarded part of you wants to come out of hiding. The first verse is exactly that moment: the quiet hope, the fear, the relief of letting someone in after a long time of protecting yourself.

There’s a line—“He held my hands like they’d never break.” That one still gets me. It captures what it feels like when someone makes you feel safe for the first time in a long time. And when you feel safe, you start giving pieces of yourself you don’t offer to just anyone. The pre-chorus is about those pieces—the fragile ones, the bleeding ones. The parts you think someone will finally cradle gently… until they don’t.

The chorus is really the emotional core. “He was my home.” That’s something not everyone understands, especially when you’re talking about queer love. Sometimes we find “home” in a person long before we ever find it in a place. And losing that—losing a home you built in someone else—hurts in a way that’s almost physical. I wanted listeners to feel that cold shock when warmth suddenly disappears, when someone you loved with your whole self turns around and walks away like it was nothing.

The second verse dives into the small, everyday promises—Tuesday nights, whispered forevers, names spoken like they meant the world. That’s what makes heartbreak after deep intimacy so devastating. You’re not just losing a person; you’re losing the life you quietly built around them. When I wrote the line “One morning he stopped reaching back,” I knew it was the turning point. Sometimes relationships don’t end with a bang; they end with silence.

The bridge is the part I struggled with the most emotionally. It’s about the echoes that stay—the empty bed, the heartbeat trying to remember how to feel whole without him. It’s the slow process of unloving someone who once felt like the safest place you knew. But it’s also where I remind myself, and anyone listening, that resilience is real. Even broken hearts keep beating.

The final chorus is where I take the power back. I realized that a home that leaves you isn’t a home you can stay in. Loving him didn’t make me weak—it made me honest. But learning to let him go? That made me stronger. By the end, the song turns from mourning into reclamation: “But now I’m my own.” That line is the healing. It’s the moment where loss turns into self-return.

“He Was My Home” is for anyone who gave their heart to someone who wasn’t ready to hold it. It’s for anyone who had to rebuild themselves after loving deeply and losing deeply. It’s for queer love, for soft love, for brave love. And it’s a reminder that even when someone walks away, you can still come back to yourself.

He Was My Home

42 year old gay man who just living life one day at a time

He Was My Home

Justin