He hangs what he loves in his home, but the front door, next to the bookshelves and microwave.
Glitter frames and broken bones strung up on hooks and nails.
Elizabeth slips from her place sometimes to slide beneath sheets and create dreams of lost valentines and tattered melancholy.
Her bones no longer hold her up and tacks are bend under her now diminishing weight.
The skin slits and she falls to the ground like leaves.
She's hung beside spoons and kept like fine china and folded linen.
Pressed like flowers in a scrapbook, her hair.
Nails in a jar, tucked in the corner with her memories
Sometimes Elizabeth slips and he waltzes with her across the porch and down the street to the bakery where he buys her cookies she'll never taste
Cookies left under her like gifts on an alter, crushed when Elizabeth slips.