she’s a little house, but she’s our house

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.

this is my house

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