Tuesday, June 22, 2010
the problem is my house
The problem is my house. You made love to me in my bed. You spent TV
seasons with me under that black and white blanket on my sofa. You sat
on my front porch talking to my mom, and you snuck in through my
basement window to see me.
The problem is my house. I remember what it feels like to fit kisses
sloppily between our laughs that time on the cabana by my pool. And
the night sky through my window looks the same tonight as it did the
night you had your arms around me. And I can still feel my heart rise
when you threw me playfully onto your shoulders and whirled me around
in front of my mirror.
Never mind that you were my first lover. Never mind that once, you
held my heart in your hand. Never mind that you have discovered all of
me, my every flaw and freckle.
The problem is my house. You’ve left your memory in all the rooms and
your lips on all the cups. Your faded image flickers as it lounges on
my kitchen chair smiling, like a dream my house is having.
I want to let you go. I need to. My heart is mine now; it hasn’t
skipped an honest beat to breath your name in a while. But the problem
isn’t my heart. The problem is my house - ‘cause in it, you’re
everywhere to me.
College is coming in September, and I'll be gone. Away from this house
and this town. Until then, "I'll be seeing you, in all the old
Love always, G