Do you dream?

Dream of a home–

Where roots ingrain in the dirt and bones.

It calls to me gently, ropes from your sinew have laced themselves around my ankles and slowly pulls me towards the cradle of that willow tree you never managed to grow; framing the house you left behind to grow old and tired between seasons of abandonment.

But when I know you’re lying six feet under, who else would dare to inhabit these walls?

Your skeletal hands have wrapped around my wrist and I fear there is nowhere else to go.

This is where I need to be–

Where I’m supposed to be.

Is this my house?

I don’t remember. 

But the poppy colored door has your fingerprints dried within the coats of paint. 

And as long as you’ve been here– I will be here.

Tending the hearth that once kept you warm.

 

Let my skin stretch throughout the space, arranging my things one by one,

To find their home within your home. 

Or was it mine to begin with?

The cobwebs of my memory keep forgetting if it’s me or you that started this.

One of us will end it while the other rests

Because a place is only as good as the memory that serves it.