I wanna
build you a birthday cake house
for us to live in.

Don't fret, my love.
I'll make sure it's hollowed out.

I'm not sure
what flavor you'd like,
so I'll make it chocolate and vanilla swirl
with a strawberry addition in the back,
just to be safe.

I'll even make a garden
for us to grow
our own baby sprinkles and frosting seedlings,
and we'll spend our mornings
delighting in our bountiful harvest
and flouring our candy rosettes.

Our neighbors will probably think we're crazy
and stare at us with suspicious gazes
through their dull,
typical,
daisy-patterned kitchen curtains,
and discuss our strange living situation
at their dreary,
alcohol-free,
suburban bar-b-qs that we'll rarely get invited to.
So I'll send out cake baskets,
and add some
red, white, and blue sprinkles.
'At least they're patriotic,'� they'll say.

However,
I've never
been good with tools
or known for my cookery,
but a teacher once called me 'creative'�
so maybe it'll turn out ok.

The walls may be
a little unstable,
and the frosting might be
a little heavier on one side than the other.

The writing in icing could be
ugly and indiscernible,
and maybe we should just stay away
from candles.

We'll likely have issues
with plumbing
electricity
weather
insulation
and pests of various sorts.

But I wanna work
until my legs are too weak
to stand or climb or kneel
and my arms are too tired
to lift or stir or paint,
to make it sort of beautiful
for you.

And I'll do all this
because I want to,
and I love you,
and I wanna build you a birthday cake house
and live with you there.

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