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