Perhaps the heart lives in bone

like a child tiptoeing through

the cavernous warped

hallways of an ancestral

home

all the furniture draped in white

photographs too smeared with soot to see

she gets lost but doesn't

worry

how delicious

to be all alone

to let her fingers drag and dance

upon the curling wallpaper

and around every corner

to not be afraid

though she would have every reason to be

but

unschooled in tall tales

she twirls in crinoline drapes

leaps at cobwebs

opens every door she's able.

The house sinks deeper

settling its crumbling foundation

in clay

while high above

she's lit candles

set them in pools of wax on windowsills

and made her presence known.

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