I stand, staring. Thinking of a kitchen in another house. Staring out a window with a different view.
Inside our homes
we live together
sampling every now
a taste we do not
in the empty garden
the trampoline dances
september rain falling
Walls empty, pictures gone. Yet the oily blutack stain remains on. Each grubby cluster holds a story. Knows the secrets that you never told.
Secrets that I’ll never know.
I drove past your house, I missed it completely. The door was blue you see.
Doubling back I knocked on the door, it sounded different. The thud a bit duller, the wood softer.
Shadows moved behind the glass, silhouettes of familiar faces.
A sigh exhaled. All was well. Except that door.
Even now years later I look for the red, the beacon of hope.
Even now I drive past. Thrown by that door of misdirection.
Sofa still warm, your
Impression in the fabric
Nestle in your shape