When I first came to your house,
You had the blinds shut,
After a bit of poking and prodding,
You cracked them to let me peek in,
Eventually you opened them all the way,
And I could see everything inside.
I tapped on the glass hoping you’d let me enter,
I could see your lights on,
And your brown, cozy room,
With your grandfather’s desk,
And your sister’s tv stand,
I knocked louder on the window,
But you wouldn’t let me in.
Maybe in January,
I looked inside and everything was gone.
No more brown duvet cover,
No more collage coated walls,
No more curling Persian rug,
Just brown paint,
And stained carpet.
I don’t know where you went.
Eventually all the lights turned off too.
And there was no point in sitting outside in the cold and pecking on the glass.
I used to bang on the window as hard as I could,
But that’s not what you wanted.
I still sometimes drive past that yellow house,
With the brown walls,
Where I laid outside in the warm grass,
So that I can feel a pang in my stomach,
And reminisce on lost love