The White Marble Dust of Our Bones

I've burrowed into

the chambers of your heart,

nestled myself into an atrium

and settled in.

Sometimes, at night,

I like to walk the corridors of this home

built only of the things you love.

The air in here is the stuff of

nighttime cigarettes and old books

and the tangerine leaves of oak trees

in the waning light of fall.

A Whitney song plays in the background

just loud enough to bleed

into the rhythm of your pulse.

It makes me want to dance

and I hate dancing---

I walk past rooms from your childhood,

rooms built with cotton candy walls,

rooms lined with shelves stacked high

with kaleidoscopes

and triceratops

and pink-sand-filled hourglasses

trickling bottom up.

I walk past rooms from your future,

rooms where the light of your dreams

burns long and bright

like a yellow moon rising

in the shadow of a dark night.

And there, just at the end,

I come to the room we built together.

It is made of the white marble dust of our bones.

It is innocent. It is pure. It is strong.

It is warm in here, and quiet,

and like an afternoon nap

I'm afraid it will close much too soon,

so I shut my eyes again,

bury myself deeper into the sinew of your love,

listen to the lullaby of your beating heart

and decide I'd like to stay in these walls

just a little while longer,

because all I need is your love

and your heart

to feel home.