This house sighs in loneliness, as if knowing it’s empty. The windows held within rooted walls, ache at the cold begging to come in. And I, orphaned in this old, further aging house. Every wall holds another secret. Sadness, happiness, laughter, and tears absorbed in every inch. This place was once a home. Every corner holds a ghost living in a memory. Each closet with it’s own collection of skeletons; things left undone and things left behind. However, nothing is ever left behind.
And I live in this place, inside of you, every minute of every day. Every home I’ve ever called home, collected into one place. I can stand in the doorway and see every dammed memory played out. And it quakes within me; shakes me to my core. Every bit of misery I spent years trying to forget. Every bit of joy I’ve ever held dear. I’ll fold it neatly, place it in the draw you’ve left for me and continue on. Home is where my heart is, because it was sewn into every stitch of every curtain. It was painted onto the walls. Stacked like dishes in the cupboards. And hinged to every door.
The floor boards crack with age and melancholy, like old, arthritis riddled joints. And with each step, I’m reminded, in here, I am alone. And my heart will lead me to this place, every time. Rooms once filled with laughter, now occupied by the exhausted throbs of my heart striking against my chest. And my heart will drive me mad.
And in this place, I will wait. In you, I will live. And that in itself, will have to be enough.