Love is a
House
A suitcase of memories packed in the little truth between the words we've spoken.
Long gone is the fresh painted new house smell that over took the house back when our love was new (real). An open house now shows smoke sulked walls hued over what could have been. Floor length picture windows double pained, hung and insulated with only grilles that reflect boxed pieces of an incomplete portrait, doing little to shelter our home from the harshest winds and rains that would be us. We gazed out of them praying to get a glimpse of a more familiar us. Yet they only gave sight to wondering eyes with which we peered out and envied lush greener grasses. Theses stained glass panes would served as multiple exits in our many cases of emergencies. Maybe mirrors would have served a better propose. Pacing floors and opening doors wishing to find the comfort of you at “home”, at least as a visual of you occupying it. Hardwood gives catch to tears and fears.
House Warming
It ain't an Art Gallery. Don't wonder around watching and waiting.
Plush expensive throw rugs and berber carpets cover dirt and discolored blood shoot eyes. The foyer echoes hallow cries yet adorn shiny crystal figurines hurling bright that would stay long after the home had returned back to a house; the stroke of midnight when chandeliers would reverted back to dark round shaped objects that once shun a beautiful light. Granite countertops of hard beveled mute. Viking refrigerator and stoves full of cold. A clinical kitchen, the heartbeat of the house dead weighted in gravity. Appliance and gadgets not touched since the off load and then by strangers that groped, pulled and pushed, handled for the moment never to return, no thought or taste to begot again. Bedrooms hotel styled vacant and barracks cold. Lights off, covers pulled tight, bed hard enough to bounce a quarter off of it's neat. Springs un-sprung, bathrooms washed nothing, tubs shallow, showers dry. Nothing wet in them but Kleenex and eyes. 90 days later arrives a big house warming for this lavish place. Flowers, music and dancing. It's like a New Orleans funeral. Someone dies and you celebrate. Nobody wants to know the truth just dwell well and don't sell. Plant carnations to mask the smell. Still not able to give you what you think you gave me. No throwing and turning over tables and chairs, I wouldn't dare. I leave with my keys in hand and continue to pretend. Unhinged windows and open doors encourage the sun to blossom into where the ghost of happiness had brightened, long ago days in so many ways.
The only thing that has changed is everything.