Time suggests houses,
patterns with doors and windows,
secret rooms and escape hatches.
We melt the glue, the seams
beneath wallpaper:
facades for temperance.
I like her because
she fails to jumble her narratives,
lays bricks evenly across
our shared property.
She raises ghosts with her eyebrows,
raises questions
with doorknobs, flimsy latches.
Time suggests houses,
but it also suggests fluid,
streams running in uneven paths,
remembering only to cross the future:
our only permanent fixture.
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