words I only tell myself

that house

I’m dreaming of a house in a land so far away and so cold. I’m dreaming of its brick walls and the fireplace we never used. The cold basement; the carpeted flooring. The homely kitchen – wooden table, wooden chairs. And the boy who used to live in it with me.

There was a garden where we would pick tomatoes off the vine, plums off the tree, basil and rosemary from the earth.

Roses in the front yard gave way to snow in the driveway. Winter came. And then winter went.

Now, there is no winter anymore. And I am no longer a million miles away from home.

But that house… I think that house will stay with me forever.