He builds glass houses
that fracture when the light creeps
from room to room.
The walls are painted
with his name,
searing and familiar.
And my eyes unlike
my mothers,
change with each glinting hallway.
He moves in silence,
save the sound of his moods
(he loves me sometimes)
jingling with loose change
in his pockets.
In the quiet,
barefeet padding across lacquered floors,
the confrontation of callused cheeks.
Then,
tornadoes above my midsection.
He swallows my refractions.
The most terrifyingly sweet
thing to touch this mouth
since stillness.
Once we’re in the light,
shards of glass cling to my sweater
for days. He builds our house again.
New messages on the machine
echoing off transparent walls.
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