It starts in fits

never giggles.

like slow syrup, I’m winding around this
house and liking all the things
i’ve tried to change about it
since I first held her keys.

I fell in love fast and hard.
Like rope burns on your wrists.
Her pine-wood flooring, the darling
sheds, nooks, secret rooms.

We had never owned a home with stairs
to up.

Always down, or the first one: nowhere.

Each address means something deep,
like ink, to me. Numbers as markers, a way
to say “I was here” or really … there.

and as we slowly comb back the layers
added to you, little house, we see your beautiful
plaster walls and not so many doors.

and I love you.