I would build a house out of you, for a wall six feet under the sky hardly amounts to even a scaffold.

I would reassemble your two hundred and six bones into shutters to keep the sun away and save this mind I have been trying to keep from the indemnity of this worthless sanity. A pair of windows made out of the patterns in your eyes and I would be the only creature your soul contains. Your lips would be the pillow I hide my needles under. Your veins would be the bed sheets I get tangled in, uncannily warm when I tear them apart. I would fiddle with your hair like a cassette tape and when they spin off reel, I would pull at my own hair instead. I would wallpaper the rooms with your skin so I could force myself to memorise the contours on you. I would hammer your nails into a picture-less frame just because a Mona Lisa painting is superflous. I would tuck my intellectual emotions behind the dressing table and curl up in the notch of your lungs. Your breathing would sound nothing like a refuge for me, though your words would be for a tenth of a second. I would carry your heart around like a pounding candle light but I still wouldn’t find what I lost. I would flick cigaratte butts at spiders that hide between the webs of your fingers. I would paint your insides black with kerosene and a lighter just to make myself comfortable, though I'd be the only one suffering third degree burns. I would scream in your ears like it was a whirlpool in my backyard, “take it to your grave”, though I never knew what ‘it’ really was. All I know is that the hinges were made of valves. I wouldn't come back in once I leave, unless I decide to tear down what I have built.

I would build a house out of you, but you are not my home.