on building foundations upon impermanent structures

You began to build a home

inside another person’s bones

and I thought about

running to you, shrieking,

to pack up your heart

to turn off the lights

to take your hammer and nails

and build elsewhere.

But his eyes were so bright

and his words were melodic

and you’re nothing

if not intrigued

by all things poetic

and so inside you went,

using his arms as your foundation,

his palms as your doors,

his muscles as windows

and together, your love painted the walls

and I worried for you,

because a man is not a home.

His bones can be broken,

his heart can be closed,

his words can be silenced.

And I feared this would mean

that you’d be left without shelter,

that his ribs would not catch you,

that the drop would be too far,

that you’d break upon impact.

And you’re shivering down to your bones

with no escape from the elements

and you’ll need help to rebuild.

and we’ll all come out

with our tools and our bricks

and we’ll hand you our best,

but you’ll have to be the one

to this time set the foundation.

because he is not your home

and neither are we,

but dear one, just like Dorothy,

you’ve had what you’ve needed all along

and home is in your heart, not his.