split-level
livejournal: solidarity for the perpetually broken hearted?
I moved out of the Woodbridge house. When I wake up and am not laid out on the mattress on the floor, I feel afraid. I wonder how I will fall asleep with out drafty windows. I wonder how I will enjoy solitude without the whispering walls and the reassuring creak of the stairs. It's only been a few day but I already miss the clogged bathtub and the foothole in the attic where a board was missing under the carpet. I especially miss the way my room smelled like a marriage between a dust pan and decaying wood.
I wonder where I will make my new home. Maybe I will start with an apartment, or even a pay-by-night hotel. I'm not sure if I can commit to anything just yet. Sad that I've never lived in a house longer than four seasons. Sad that I could only get my hands on a measley month to month when I really wanted that 2-year lease.
The worst part is how the house will forget me. The spaces I put so much love and detail and precision in to won't even recognize my foot steps tomorrow. It's almost like the moment I stop painting the doorways with my shadows, some skank is installing tacky venetian blinds on my favorite window. The homewrecker fumbles with faucets to "test the water pressure" and dicks around with the light switches ( I suppress the swelling tears here, when I imagine their hands on you). How do (you) the house have patience for these fools? They will never know or care for you like I did. They don't know the secret way to jiggle the handle on the toilet to stop it from running, or why the heat mysteriously turns off every night at 11 as much as you mess with the thermostat. They won't appreciate the worn-in railing, or the cracks on the kitchen wall that sort of look like a Shel Silverstein poem. They will be angry when they mop up water if the ceiling cries under the stress of a rainstorm. They probably will forget to scrub the bath tub and leave rings around your perfect, white porcelain. They will probably move out before ever finding the stash spots where I so surreptitiously hid my secrets (plans for our future)
I loved that house.
I fly to Amsterdam tomorrow. Wish me luck.
I moved out of the Woodbridge house. When I wake up and am not laid out on the mattress on the floor, I feel afraid. I wonder how I will fall asleep with out drafty windows. I wonder how I will enjoy solitude without the whispering walls and the reassuring creak of the stairs. It's only been a few day but I already miss the clogged bathtub and the foothole in the attic where a board was missing under the carpet. I especially miss the way my room smelled like a marriage between a dust pan and decaying wood.
I wonder where I will make my new home. Maybe I will start with an apartment, or even a pay-by-night hotel. I'm not sure if I can commit to anything just yet. Sad that I've never lived in a house longer than four seasons. Sad that I could only get my hands on a measley month to month when I really wanted that 2-year lease.
The worst part is how the house will forget me. The spaces I put so much love and detail and precision in to won't even recognize my foot steps tomorrow. It's almost like the moment I stop painting the doorways with my shadows, some skank is installing tacky venetian blinds on my favorite window. The homewrecker fumbles with faucets to "test the water pressure" and dicks around with the light switches ( I suppress the swelling tears here, when I imagine their hands on you). How do (you) the house have patience for these fools? They will never know or care for you like I did. They don't know the secret way to jiggle the handle on the toilet to stop it from running, or why the heat mysteriously turns off every night at 11 as much as you mess with the thermostat. They won't appreciate the worn-in railing, or the cracks on the kitchen wall that sort of look like a Shel Silverstein poem. They will be angry when they mop up water if the ceiling cries under the stress of a rainstorm. They probably will forget to scrub the bath tub and leave rings around your perfect, white porcelain. They will probably move out before ever finding the stash spots where I so surreptitiously hid my secrets (plans for our future)
I loved that house.
I fly to Amsterdam tomorrow. Wish me luck.