I loved you, so I needed you to be permanent.
I needed a structure, a tangible place that I could hold and call my own.
So I made a home out of you.
I built the foundation from your strong legs, the roof from your arms and shoulders. The interior was your heart and all its layers. And each room, a part of your skin that I could claim, that I could kiss.
I created a magnificent structure from your pieces, and folded myself into your embrace.
I made a home out of you, a place where I could both grow and hide.
A place where I could feel safe.
You were mine, and so I made you permanent. I built your structure and crawled inside. I made spaces in your heart for mine, and crevices in your brain for my thoughts.
I made you into a place where I could feel welcome, a place we could both return to after a long day and find one another again.
You were the hands that held mine, the arms that welcomed me in. You opened like a door to me, giving me a resting place for my worn body, and kisses for a tired heart.
You became the place where I felt the safest, the most like myself.
And I got lost in the security that only a well-built home can provide.
Your foundation never crumbled, never faded, never chipped, even in all that time. You were always strong, braving the winds or sun, even the other builders who thought they could knock you down and start all over again.
You weathered storms and floods, the change of seasons, and the flurry of emotions. Through every trial you stood strong, secure, safe.
And in every minute of loving you, you never felt any less than my haven, my house.
I know, now, how lucky I am to not only have a person, but a place to claim as mine. Someone and something to return to, to forever call home.