I'm an architect, it's true.
I make homes out of people,
more often than I should.

All it takes is a breath of fresh air
and a hundred nights
and twice as many days.

It starts with hello, or hi,
whichever is preferred.
Laying the foundation, slowly.

Then the layers,
peeling off old memories
of faces from a past I can barely remember.

I'll ponder on the materials,
and I'll begin.


Sometimes it doesn't work out
because the brickwork was all wrong.
Sometimes it falls a part
because the cement isn't strong.
Sometimes it holds, at least for awhile,
before crumbling into dust.

When I saw you, I drew up plans in my head,
blueprints,
everything was fixed in my head.
Then I tried building you.

It was the hardest **** thing
I've ever done,
it kept crumbling half way up.

A loose brick here,
unsteadiness there...
It was doomed from the start.

But I kept trying anyway.

Because when I was tired,
you told me stories.
And when  I got hurt,
you cared for my wounds.
When I start to doubt,
you tell me it will be okay.

Come rain, come shine,
you stayed
and I built a home out of you.
I had a home because of you.

But the weather had its game face on,
and you tried to stay strong.

It started with small leaks,
just stray drops from the storm
then gaping holes in the roof...
The walls grew mould.

But I stayed.
And here I stay.

I make homes out of people,
more often than I should.
And for now, you'll be the last
one I try to fix even after
you've broken and left me for dead.

Maybe in a few months I'll try again.
I'll use someone else as inspiration.
And I'll make a home out of them,
just like I tried to with you.