I am the draft in the hallway,
the door that never shuts quite right.
You step inside,
but the warmth slips away—
I cannot hold it.

I paint the walls in vibrant hues,
yet when I turn,
the colors are already fading,
peeling into cracks
I can never seal.

I fill the rooms with furniture,
trying to make this place ours,
but I drape them in white sheets,
leaving them to gather dust.

You open the windows wide,
and I pull the curtains closed.
You knock at the door,
and I cannot always let you in.

And sometimes I fear
I’ve trapped us in this hollow place,
when you deserve a home
and not these half-lived walls
between here and nowhere.

I wonder if one day
you’ll walk these empty halls
and decide not to return
because I never learned
how to make a house a home.