i wonder if building
a house inside of myself
wouldn’t be the worst thing,
the worst choice i’ve ever made

and i chose to love
you on purpose, ya know?
brought fresh pine and soft rugs
to fashion you a table and chairs

but what is an empty table,
if only a centerpiece to display
all the times i dashed my own
heart upon the rocks?

still, i can’t blame the soft
and rain-soaked dirt of your soul
for not being able to nourish
the flowers i so carefully planted

so i will take these wooden planks
and fashion myself a little cottage,
maybe with a wrap-around porch and
window boxes,
and wouldn’t that be nice?

because these hands of mine, lover
they know not the days old
stubble on your cheek, or tucking
bright yellow dandelions and buttercups
behind your ear

but they do know
how to build something from nothing
something from what once was
a ship, a lighthouse, a table

a sturdy front porch
that always has the light on