Hands on marble counters collecting dust from unwanted promises. Leaves torn up from naked branches fallen at the roots, hoping to be recollected in a warm embrace. I look at the walls I used to recognize so well, the pillars that used to keep me so safe, and I think about the last time this room felt like home.
Each time I revisit that house I come back with less spark in my eyes. A little more rotten. But the more I stay away, the more it has a hold on me.
So I walk in between the sheets of paper crumbled on the floor, worried that if I touch them I would succumb to what is written in between the lines, and I go up the stairs trying hard no to lose balance. There used to be pictures here… Now it’s just empty frames of forgotten memories.
As I reach the little bed of cherry blossoms, I lay my head on stiffened feathers and I wonder if I should be dissapointed that they can’t see how shattered you made me, or proud because you taught me how to hide it so well.