Of the house, only the foundation is left
-the one upon which once we built history,
from bricks of promises and smiles.
Miguel takes my hand
and caresses sweetly my curls,
and the density of the air becomes
my grueling downfall.
The walls were taken by the explosion;
grey colored chips are all that remains
of those childhood arch played melodies.
It smells of mold and gunpowder,
of lauders and powders of blush in front of the mirror
in which she taught me to be a sophisticated woman.
Miguel kisses my forehead
and takes me tenderly in his arms;
never stains nor ghosts upon
my unforgiving downfall.
These are the ruins of my house:
someone put them for sale, and tourists
are carrying them away ten cents a piece.
© Valerie Jones - 2007