it pains me you've put your foundations so at risk
the floor beneath my feet is solid, sitting on a base of cement rather than hovering over a basement space. the air smells like new wood, murphy's wood oil soap and the heat from a vacuum. the setting sun- all soft pinks and butter yellows- is glinting through the bow window stretching across the room to my left.
i'm in my bare feet, my jeans dusty with the kind of dirt that accumulates when a new house is being finished. there's hand prints in white across my thighs and below my knees. my hair is hanging in small pieces, flat and also covered with dust. my lips are chapped.
and i'm singing at the top of my lungs, dancing in a new space that is going to be so good.