Mapping the cracks of the walls, pretending like home is where ever we are.  I’m not one to mind the size or location, or the way the sun hits the windows as it sets.  I suppose the perfect house would have something to do with you.  I’ve never considered myself religious, but the way your chest rises and falls was enough for me to want to build a sanctuary.  We’ll stain our own windows, and worship the floorboards where we’ve walked.
If home is where the heart is, then four walls will never mean anything.  I imagine us being scrunched into a small apartment with just enough room to breathe.  We’ll be able to hear conversations in the hallways and over-look raw city-scapes and all of the people who choose to inhabit it.  All I’m asking for is a room with a view; a view of the population, the little memories they retain in windows, and the stars; anything to feel insignificant.  
Dreamcatcher walls and places to store little memories; pressed flowers and polaroid pictures.  We won’t stay there forever, just long enough to let our story seep through the carpets.  A temporary home, ingrained in tomorrow’s maybes.  But if the cracks in the walls remember us, then maybe we’ll remain immortal.  In ten years time, the building will be torn down and no one will remember who walked there.  Whispers in rubble, and memories of ‘what almost was.’