My house has a way of gaining memory as it knows my habits
it’s creaky eyelashes batter to my dirty footsteps
it’s doors never fully lock remembering the times i’ve been trapped out
the faucet stays lukewarm because it knows my familiarity with that temperature
my house remembers me crying in the kitchen and laughing in the bathroom
tripping over myself on the stairs and the mess i’d make of the vacuum
it’s windows work as a double-sided mirror, reflecting me to the outside tree and the
outside tree to me
the backyard conifers sway like i have when i learn to slow down
the crying walls remind me of the baby next door
but don’t I scream through plaster too?
Shadowy hallways littered with echoes of past arguments
Silhouettes making out former aggressors
the drips of gas from old cars make ragged roads iridescent, holographic
the house knows i can shine like this, but i refrain
adhering to my homely habits even if it’s less familiar than before
my house knows the keyboard tapping and fingertip rapping against the piano and
countertop
but i don’t own that noise
that noise belongs to my sister and mother, taking ownership over my ambience
the house knows that i don’t have my ambience
as mine is everyone’s
i am everyone’s
i am those of the ones who breathe, and even the house breathes
it’s body language slouches to my return, as neither of us are ever ready
the house is a self-explained motif
a glass cottage that sees me through
it’s not a cage but a pen
it’s locked but accepting of new
my house is the drive home alone
lengthy but not long enough
driving home is terribly friendly compared to the physical touchdown, returning home
the house contains toast crumbs that lay on the floor, accompanying me at my ever so
inevitable return
my house walls breathe more than my lungs when i’m here again
and i envy them
despite the house’s apathy in demeanor
i envy it