nothing is permanent.
someday, the place we call
home will be emptied
from the inside out—
skinned from within—
filled with foreign heartbeats
and people who don’t know our names.
does that frighten you?
they will live a new history,
treading over ours and cutting
down the rosemary bushes
in the backyard. no one will know
the heartbreak stitched into the curtains—
the echoes of us in the drywall—
the concrete and love
the foundation was built upon.
no one will know this place like we do.
Read more from Issue No. 6 or share on Facebook and Twitter.