It’s a wayward heart, with no cavity to call it’s own.
Home is where the heart is. Well, this one’s nowhere.
It found you as a solace, a consolation, being fair to neither it nor you.
People don’t make good homes, it knows. A sanctuary is a settlement; petty as a compromise.
Ah, forgive the heart. It knows no home. It’s wayward, wild and crazy.
Set it free, set it alight. Show it the door. You long needed to renovate anyway.