House


Love is a four-letter word.
It is also four bedrooms
in the house
we didn’t get to grow old in.
 
The greens,
the warm neon lights—
held dreams of the live
we thought we’d lived.
 
But dream is a word for something distant,
an imagination too far to touch.
What do you call it when it’s already in your hands—
and then it’s gone?
 
As if a thief came in the middle of the night
and stole the only thing that mattered most:
Us.

The day I left the house,
I woke up and found you sitting on the couch.
Meaning evaporated from each unspoken words
and silence became the only language we knew.
A broken record
that finally stopped spinning.

The day I left the house,
I could feel all the years we should’ve had—
slipping like loose change
through a pocket full of holes.
Piece
by
piece.
Birthdays missed,
anniversaries uncelebrated.
 
That was the day
I left my heart buried in your garden—
among the flowers we never planted,
beneath the footsteps of children—
we never had.

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