The Architect.

She is an architect

Building houses of people

And people of homes

And thinking they would

Love her

Thinking that because her hands once touched the bricks of their being

And because her hands once got muddled in the cement she poured herself

They would think her significant

She wasn’t asking to be magnificent

Just asking to be acknowledged

And it’s funny

She laughed to herslf one night as she stopped to pick up the weeds that grew round the homes out of people she built

It’s funny

When

You open

Up your ribs for the world to see

You
Risk the pokes of crowds at your heart for that one delicate embrace

And find that no one even cares to poke your heart in the first place

The home has grown big enough to take care of itself

Has adopted a family to inhabit its walls and furnish it with pretty little things

And the girl realizes

There is nothing for her here but the mailbox

But the letters keep coming back to her unopened

And it seems nothing is there for her but the clocks

Nothing cares for her but the clocks

But even time only cares in that heart-poking sort-of-way she never even got before

Time only cares for her in the way that she bore herself to the world and only felt lonelieness

And this girl

This girl never built homes again