He built it.

Brick by brick,

hands thick with time,

and every tick

was laid in mortar,

love and care

a steady man

in thinning air.

He carved my name

into the frame,

each wall a whisper,

soft acclaim.

Hung windows wide

so I could see

the kind of life

he dreamed for me.

He measured twice,

but never rushed.

He patched my past,

sanded my hush.

Hammered hope

into every floor.

Left a light

behind each door.

He built a house

with heart and hands.

No palace,

but a place that stands.

A place that heard

my quiet ache,

and held me

when I’d start to break.

He made a roof

that knew my rain.

A porch to pace

when I held pain.

He painted ceilings

with belief,

turned my silence

into grief

that dared

to speak.

But I didn’t fall

for beams and stone.

It wasn’t paint

or freshly mown

lawns that made me want to stay.

It was him.

It was his way.

The way he made

each corner breathe.

The way he stayed

when I would leave.

The way his laugh

could warm the tiles.

The way his hands

learned all my miles.

It wasn’t the house

I loved,

not really.

It was him.

And how he held me

fully.

He was the welcome mat and fire,

the coffee scent,

the sweet desire.

The echo when I called too low.

The reason all the curtains glowed.

And I?

I was shelter, too.

Not beams,

but arms

he could lean into.

I gave him rooms

he’d never known,

a place to set

his heavy bones.

And love:

Oh, it bloomed,

slow, like spring.

Like daffodils

that dared to cling

to broken soil

and frozen earth,

but still found light

and claimed their worth.

So now we stand

inside this frame,

the house he built,

but not the same.

Because the truth is clear,

through storms and stone:

We were never lost.

Together,

we just found home.

He was mine.

And I was his.

Not walls,

not roof,

but what love is.

Two hearts that chose

to stay and grow.

He built this house.

But we

made it

home.