what a beautiful language - by jaron - the way home

When you arrive at my place, I can hear the echo of your footsteps upon each wooden stair. The age of the house sings with a voice creaking and sighing, an almost embarrassing laughter of objects that sink down and spring back up under your gentle weight. I like that our metal gate is rusty so I know you're coming in. That iron door has become a Pavlovian bell to me in the last months, saturating me with sincerity, affection, tiredness; the colors of love's bleary departure.