Houses ache. 
When they are 
cold or empty, 
they creak like 
faraway crows.

The shifting you 
hear in the middle 
of the night when 
yours lips meet with 
silence and dreams,
that is restlessness.

You and the roof
and the chimney
and the floorboards 
were born of the 
same sadness.

Every gasp of a beat 
your heart makes—is 
echoed by stillness. 
The houses in identical 
rows rage for you against
the storm of life.

They cry and breathe and
eventually they bend 
under the weight of the 
skies. You may have been 
born of the same sadness, 
but you are not a house.

Do not confuse the curve 
of your shoulders for the 
frame of a jagged outline
that burns into the horizon. 
You can change, but houses 
can only shift occasionally 
or be threatened by collapse.

I will tell you a secret: 
Goodbye and goodnight 
do not have to mean the same
thing. Do not let the drooping
houses tell you otherwise.
You are more than them.
You are here and real
and you do not have to fold
for anyone but yourself