This is the house
Our home, our end.
Here the ponytail tree we bought for our fifth anniversary. The winds of change have left it bent, willowed, dry.
Here the weathered leather couch, a companion from our student days. Etched on its leather hours of cuddling, studying, sunday sex and the moment you said we were done.
Here our kitchen, neatly remodelled with every appliance of your choice, the coffee machine desperate for capsules, desperate for the aroma of caffeine mixed with conversation and Springsteen lamenting life, the smell of home.
Here the bed, far too small to hold our truth. At night it wakes, mocks you with the truth: I am gone, I have left.
Here the home we built and every dream we ever held, every hope I ever put in you.
And now
Home is a black suitcase
Marked fragile,
Handle with care.

Copyright Hiraeth 2015