I dreamed us a house,
its bones a lattice of whispered vows,
its roof stitched with the threads
of our laughter, thick as stars.
The floors hummed with the weight of mornings,
two cups, one kettle—
the orchestras of a life together.

But you, my phantom architect,
forgot the plans, or perhaps
burned them in a garden I will never see.
I drew blueprints in my sleep,
measuring the spaces
between what we had and what you wanted.

I held a window to your face—
"See, here is the sun we were to share."
But your eyes were rain-soaked stones,
fixed on an horizon
where no house stood, no promise lingered.
Did you ever want it?
Or did my dreams merely sprawl
too wide, too weighty for your quiet compass?

Now I walk alone
through the ruins of this imaginary place,
longing for your footprints in the dust,
wishing you could see
the cathedral I built in your name.
But the silence tells me
you never prayed here,
and perhaps never will.

Still, I carve your absence
into every unspoken room,
this house that was never built.
Its ghost towers above me,
aching, eternal,
a monument to my dreams unshared.