I am an empty house, not abandoned.
But within there is no comfort.
Put on display to so many potential buyers, or takers, as it is.
One after another looking over my cracks, my broken mirrors.
Turning away from the chandelier, no longer in working order, bulbs and crystal fled their high perch long ago.
Time and time again, shaking heads, moving on.

And yet here you are.

You look at me with such care in those endless eyes.
Standing in my chest, where the family used to gather, you twirl, singing songs only you can hear.
Raising your arms, brandishing at the beauty you manage to find in my creaky door hinges.
That you find in my hissing pipes, and leaking roof.

And you decide to stay.

You tell my realtor you’ll cherish my windows, dust my counters, help me clean myself up.
You’ll help me mend my broken fixtures, patch the cracks in my walls.
You tell my realtor that I am beautiful, even if I need a little work.