I built myself a house to home my lonely bones, a house on a noisy-silent street opening to a quiet sky in colors my wife loves— mostly a white so transparently clear it absorbs shadows from dark yesterdays and sick brown parts chemically cured.
I built myself a house that understands my lousy Spanish and knows my gringo accent needs subtitles.
I built myself a house with big windows that illuminates everything like a single poem about the two of us living a simple day of a bright, beautiful life.
I built us a house founded not on cement but the strong muscle of our enduring experience that separate us from the chaos outside.
I built us a house filled with the sepia of things; a house where our illuminated faces reveal themselves to the familiar unknown.