13/02/2026
I Lay Floors, I Lay Feelings
By day, my hands argue with cement,
with dust that never listens,
with tiles that want to be stubborn before they become beautiful.
I measure walls like I measure silence,
cut edges the way life trims our plans,
and still—
I make things fit.
By night, my hands remember softer work.
They hold a pen instead of a trowel,
they mix words instead of mortar,
they lay verses where hearts can walk barefoot
without fear of breaking.
Some men build houses.
I build places for love to rest.
I know alignment—
not just of tiles,
but of souls that need to meet at the right angle.
I know patterns—
not just on floors,
but in the way hearts repeat mistakes
until someone writes them a better ending.
They call me a tiler,
and yes, I set stones straight.
But I am also a poet,
I set feelings in order.
Because every life is a room under construction,
and every heart deserves a good finish.
So when you see me with dust on my clothes,
know this:
I am either fixing a floor,
or fixing a sentence
that wants to become a home.
— Mr Lovey-dovey🖋️🖋️🖋️
