I could navigate this house by memory:
The big round windows to the soul.
The shutters, for slamming.
The doors that lead to the chambers of the heart.
And the rooms left unlocked.

The joints and beams that will
Creak when we grow old,
Nails giving themselves to hold us together.
Rotting wood carved erratically
By a circulatory system of termites.

That place upstairs where we will paint –
Desperate artists must always bleed to feel
(Or so they say).
The shelves of books that we will study,
Tearing through pages
Until we find
What makes a heart tick.

– P.B.


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