Our House

I’ve packed all my things and I’m ready to take leave but I stop.

I look at the house I built for you; you’ve never set foot in it.

I walked through the kitchen that connects to the dinning room remembering all the candle lit dinners that never came to be.

I walk up the stairs to the bedroom. I remember all the sheets that our wild and passionate love making never stained or sweated out.

The moans and groans silence told.

The nights that were full of zealous and hedonistic ecstasy beyond any comparison of the imagination. I wake up and know yet another dream.

I’m down by the back door and think about the times I snuck out and went to all the other houses in the neighborhood and tried to have fun, but it was not home.

I’m sitting on the couch looking at the front door. I thought about the times when I prayed for you to walk through that door and you dint. I remember all the strangers I let in because they claimed to be you but they weren’t.

I look at the door and wonder why I just won’t walk out. I did these things for you and I don’t know you.

I’ve let in strangers because I’ve never seen you.

I built a house for you in my heart and you’ve never even visited.

I made a place for you in my life and you never came.

I don’t know you and you have never known me.

As I walk through the door the fact that you don’t know, most likely don’t care, tares down the house that I built. The fact that I don’t know you keeps me from looking back.

©Christopher F. Brown 2009