I am told that I
Cannot make homes
Out of
People

That skeletons are
Too fragile
To withstand
Every storm

Yet, I called you in
Late December
And deemed you my
Potential home

I like to believe
These words are what pulled
You back into
My atmosphere

Although it is said
That homes cannot
Be made out of
Beating hearts and irises

I am striving to
Turn your flesh
Into my
Dwelling place

Your eyelashes are
The blades of grass
On the lawn
Out front

Your ribs are
The staircase leading
To rooms waiting
To be filled

I'm turning your
Flesh into
Our living room
Carpet

Your bones are
The walls which
Keep the two of us
Safe

They said it couldn't
That it really
Shouldn't
Be done

But I'm making
Myself at home
In
You

if i focus hard enough
i can
budge
all my molecules
that once were snug
embedding slivers of space
till solitude is my room

(20 minute poetry)

The potency crept up on me cruelly and painfully
startling my childhood and dragging me screaming into a false sense of maturity where the bed that I lie on became the beds that I died on and yet in moving ever on there came an acceptance lacking in youth that not all which glitters is the sparkling truth.

I scan through the lifeline to see how much more time there'll be, but messages so often in plain view are now hidden from me.
I live in it now,
maturity
Wow
it shocked me
But
I got over it.