you could burn my house down and i'll just be glad showed up at door. for what is a home but hollow cathedral of memory if not sanctified by your arrival? i have long learned to cup palms around ephemeral things—matches mirages moments too tender name—so the embers kiss floorboards swallow ceilings let them. fire fingers tracing sorrow into something sacred. are arson absolution in one breath. i foolish devotion always been willing set myself ablaze feel warmth presence. isn't it strange? how pain hands feels poetic almost holy. like suffering becomes sacred when wears scent someone once prayed for. photographs curl heat linens become ash walls weep with smoke still smile. because were here. door creaked open there stood—not as salvation storm—and in. neighbors will say am mad. they count cost blackened bones life built close longing. do understand means starved only soul can offer. know ache waiting footsteps that never come silence louder than any blaze. so all. rooms where whispered name dreams. halls echoed imagined laughter. stand wreckage barefoot bleeding call blessing. love—your love— even arrives ruin still would welcome arms matchbox