When I walk past your house, it talks to me. It looks older now, weathered. 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. I wonder if she is naive as I was.
Your house whispers, it coos with familiarity. 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 of cheap liquor I know I’ve been outside your building too long. somehow it’s like the blurrier my vision the clearer my thoughts. I hear laughter – look up. Does this girl love you as I tried to?
I shake off the urge to go upstairs.
This house holds nothing but broken promises and disappointment.