you are a house
made of flesh and bone.
throw rugs of blonde
on a hard wood floor.
only two windows,
that are usually closed.
your door
never fails to open
when I need it to.
your nerve endings
and veins
are the tangled bedsheets
on the floor
with our clothes.
you are a house,
made of bruises,
and cat scratches,
a house
with a fireplace in your chest,
coaxing people in
when it's cold.
You are a house,
but you are not a home.