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Of the house, only the foundation is left -the one upon which once we built history, from bricks of promises and smiles. Miguel takes my hand and caresses sweetly my curls, and the density of the air becomes my grueling downfall. The walls were taken by the explosion; grey colored chips are all that remains of those childhood arch played melodies. It smells of mold and gunpowder, of lauders and powders of blush in front of the mirror in which she taught me to be a sophisticated woman. Miguel kisses my forehead and takes me tenderly in his arms; never stains nor ghosts upon my unforgiving downfall. These are the ruins of my house: someone put them for sale, and tourists are carrying them away ten cents a piece.
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