when i imagine houses i tend to see them from the inside.
i see the front door slightly ajar and a cat having made itself comfortable in the gap that lets the dusty sunlight in.
i see a coat hanger that bears the weight of an exhausting day, that makes the wooden floorboard creak when osbcene insults tie themselves around it’s age-old pegs.
i see windows, and curtains, and furniture that passes of as antique but in reality is only representative of a time when this house reeked of happiness and fresh baked macaroons, a grandmother’s oven mitts, a grandfather’s crisp newspaper.
my lover, however,
always imagines them from the outside.
she says she sees a cat peeping inside an abandoned house.
she says the paint looks like something that could have passed off as pink a few fifty years back, but now is a pale ashen grey through the milky glass of the windows.
she says the insides look like they’re crumbling.
as if a soul once inhabited the chairs and photo frames but has now left; left these inanimate bodies waiting for sunlight to burn them to the ground.
my lover, she says she can feel the house spiral down into an abyss.
i ask her if she wants to mend it, if we could change the fixtures and paint the walls. if the matted tablecloth could be replaced with a flowery sheet, if we could breathe life into the house, again.
she smiles. she shakes her head and tells me how we’re both too spent already. how my heart doesn’t have enough room for reconstruction and how her shoulders don’t have enough strength for shifting furniture.
so we walk away.
and the house we both imagined, it basks in its emptiness.