I tried to build a house out of your hands.
Walls from the way you touched me,
a roof from the warmth you promised,
but it never stood long enough to call it home.
I thought I could carve out a place
in the spaces between your breaths.
I tried to make the cracks beautiful,
turn them into something livable,
but they only grew wider,
devouring the light.
I painted the walls with your words,
hoping they’d stick,
hoping they’d stay.
But they smeared,
fading in the silence between us,
and the house grew cold.
I’m learning that some people
are not meant to be a home.
They are too wild,
too fleeting,
too hollow.
I have to let it go:
the idea that I could ever find
a foundation in someone else’s skin.
