Quinn Orr

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.

One day,

Maybe in January,

Or April,

Or May,

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,


And crying,

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