I painted x’s between the stair steps of your rib cages and glued o’s to the roof of your fireproof mouth, keeping just enough so that when the economy crashed I could say I didn’t give you everything. And your eyes were windows, not to look into but to look out of, and your hands spelled out ‘welcome’ in scar tissue, in heart lines. I know I spend too much time drawing pictures on postcards and that when you argue politics all I hear is poetry, but I’m trying hard to fill the vacancy that you have offered. I never understood a longing for home, because I never sat still long enough to have one. But, you. You and your concrete and your skeletons, and your house of wild cards are starting to look like that anchor. I guess what I’m learning is that I don’t get homesick for places, only people.