Shade and Shelter Vows

Even in December, a month with crystalline earth,
I come home to you and an otherwise frozen city is
discreetly, warmly, purely, loudly life.
I come home
in any imagined life of mine.
You’re my four walls and doors and windows, too.
However shaking, you are structure
Are stone
are open curtains.
I am privileged to take residence.
When you start to crumble, I’m a fast-acting handyman.
My blood nicked and hammered into your stone.
And I breathe my own breath when buried in your neck
in the same way you have always fed me back to myself.
My stomach expands in fire
and you are the fire
are the rain on your own glass
are the candles in your own windows.
You are the fire.

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