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May 11, 2004
We've found somewhere
that really is our own.
Your name's written
on walls in my ink; you
built my smile into the
doorway's arc.

We know the stairstep that
creaks; how I always leave
the door just slightly ajar,
part of me that never
completely shuts.

There are holes and stains
we can't name. Our somewhere
can be dusty, dark.
But open the window, light
sliding through blind slits,
see stripes of smoke,
marking an afternoon
ours.

We exist inside walls without
plaster, studs, or lumber;
no map to navigate,

but I've gotten lost and
found my way back before.