My house smells of dust. Everything worn lies unswept. The forgotten corner remains untouched, wrapped in the cloth of neglect. My house smells of sunlight. Its heat stings. Reddish, like layers of burnt rust, peeling away the shadows that no longer hold their ground. My house smells of broken fragments. The walls cough with regret. Their shape is abstract, yet I gather each piece into my hands. I reach for the light slipping between my fingers, until other hands cup around mine, rebuilding what once lay in ruins. Come, step onto the ground that once felt foreign. Now it smells of flowers, blooming from every tear that ever fell, resting upon torn leaves, their dry rustling echoing the creaking of old anxieties. A heart that no longer recognizes its owner finally admits, I am an old house, trying to appear wrapped in steel, while all along I have been covered in decay.