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Photo by Chris Jarvis on Unsplash

They told you not to make homes out of people. It’s a bad habit to get into. But the shutters were painted your favorite shade of turquoise and the neighborhood was lined with those trees that are always the first to bloom in the Spring and the fireplace was always lit and a pot of coffee always brewed.

They told you not to make homes out of people. And you agreed. But the winter came and it shook you to your core and the only thing you wanted was someplace warm to sleep. It was offered up in a beating heart and stark white sheets. And the fireplace was always lit and the coffee always brewed.

They told you not to make homes out of people. And you told them to fuck off. Because the natural light peeking through the blinds every spring afternoon was the only thing keeping you alive. But it got warmer and warmer. And at some point you noticed the fireplace wasn’t lit and the coffee wasn’t brewed.

They told you not to make homes out of people. And you said “I know.” as you walked through the streets with all your belongings on your back and your heart creating puddles dripping from your sleeve. Because you woke up cold that summer morning and the fireplace wasn’t lit and the coffee wasn’t brewed.

They told you not to make homes out of people. And you get it now, but you still don’t think they do. Because you just moved into a penthouse in your favorite city. And it’s soft and warm, and sexy and pale. And the walls are donned with all your favorite words in all your favorite hues. There are two fireplaces and an espresso machine too.

They told you not to make homes out of people. But this one is you.