The Architect of lovethe house did not collapse
no doors slammed themselves shut
and the walls did not sigh
like they had secrets to tell
the kettle still boiled
at six in the evening
like it always had
like the sun still climbed the same crooked sky
even when everything else
felt slightly off
I learned early
how to hold things
without believing they would stay
how to fold love
into pockets
and hope it survived the wash
someone touches my hand now
and I memorize the warmth
pretend it...