when I was 17 the first girl I’d ever loved told me if her parents found out about how I looked at her she’d be homeless. we cried for 2 days straight, and I told about concrete counter tops. I told her about dark hardwood floors with at least three knit blankets on every couch. Our bedroom facing west because even though I love the sunrise, you look the best in our bed covered in nothing but the deep purple of sunset. The library that would smell like our books had been there longer than our home had been standing on solid foundation, stone, reliable. Sweet girl, I know they say not to make homes out of people but I don’t want anyone else’s dirty dishes on my counter. I don’t want to take the trash out for anyone else at 11pm. You’re the only person I’d race to kill a spider for in the shower. How could you ever be without a home when every time I look at you I’m building ours.