articulation as a house would never work,

more or less like how i say the words

and it fails to make a frame

or a door to keep you safe.

(i'm tired of pens and pencils,

vocal chords, keys and screens

wasting all their precious ways

on all these abstract things.)

a house is a world and the world a house

inside out, telling you things

about themselves and about yourself

about you and me, if you listen closely.

(i dreamt i was an envelope,

your story lived inside of me,

i hid you from the sun with lips,

and dark flourescent lights and eyes

of sentries of a mess of lines

would never smudge a line of yours

inside a paper wall, locked away

with a kiss. )

half of love is letting go

half of it is doors and windows

the things that deny each wall

so dialogue can whisper out and in.