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Your heart is your home as much as my own.
Somewhat dilapidated – somehow still standing.
The old columns in hardening now crumble as if letting go.
The chateau a surviving testament of our will.
These homes of ours were numb – silent in the wind.
The hearths witness to what we had to brace ourselves from.
Bitterness in the main hall.
Jealousy in the cellars.
Disappointment and embarrassment hid in the attic.
Those bedroom doors that locked the heart break
away from the love we shared in the foyer.
Somehow these things can still be felt.
Humming away in this Chateau Sept de Gables –
These hearts and homes of ours.
Something has been amiss.
Most often in the night, the stars hold us.
Kiss us with cool, silver tides of remedy bound
by sweet words that loosen the locks we set on the door.
Mostly during the day, the sunlight highlights the decay –
the garish paint peeling away from the sultry wood.
The wood that held our homes together.
The spirit that held the strength to rebuild –
to grow as though our roots were our souls and latched to the land.
These homes of ours that still stand.
We restored the halls so that laughter would echo again.
We opened the cellars so that we could share wine again.
We cleared the attic so that the noon sun could enter again.
We embraced the possibility that our hearts could break again.
That all we needed was for the other to fill the space
in our once empty homes.