A love language is scrolled upon the walls of my house,
Hand-lettered on the plaster,
Waxy under layers of bluish and yellowed patina.
The grasp of time is precious.
The artist died decades ago, but the words hold him here.

He is the protector of the house.
He gives me his memories.
He visits my dreams.

"This world is so beautiful," he tells me.
He cannot leave the view of Bear Mountain and the cottonwoods.
He cannot leave the rock walls
Built with his own craggy hands.

But...
He is not mine.
There was no consent.
I am tired of self-absorbed ghosts.

I sage and sage until he’s choked out by smoke.
When he finally surrenders,
The vanity cracks, and
I offer him up to the golden angels,
Who take him away and remind him who he really is.

Then I have reverence.
Then I lay down the flowers.
Then my heart can melt into
The house that is mine.