When I walk past your house, it talks to me. It looks older now, whethered. Like all the fighting we did took a toll on its structure.
Sometimes I can see in your windows,I don’t want to but always my eyes move of their own accord – I guess you taught me the art of self destruction,
I wonder if there’s another girl whose found my bobby pins, who cleans up after you’ve had a hard day. Who is as naive as I was. Your house whispers softly to me . It coos with familiarty. I see the curtains I helped you choose, The pavement where I learned the truth . I somehow expect it to be stained from my tears. After too many shots or cheap liquor I know I’ve been outside your building far too long, like the blurrier my vision the clearer my thoughts.
I hear laughter, look up. Does this girl love you as ferociously as I did. I shake often urge to go upstairs. This house holds nothing but broken promises and disappointment