Bent Words

Bent Words

April 05, 2007

If you’ve never been to my place…

That place where sunlight wakes you only to be readily distraught by impending clouds once you rise. That place where familiar scents abound – dryer sheets lost in t-shirts, fragrant impressions upon pillows, the rags where greasy hands were once wiped clean – not-so-easily replaced by scents of spring. Where the sounds of laughter give way to the more hollow sounds of creaking floorboards, the neighbor’s slamming door, cat claws on the kitchen floor.

Where memories do not fade – they are merely taken from the hallway walls, tucked into cardboard boxes a little less carefully than before.

That place where walls will talk when prompted with a shot of rum. And, oh!, the stories they will tell!

That place which knows the savory sound of seasoned ice and shattered mirrors crashing to the floor. Those walls… where the outline of angry fists are covered carefully with posters and pictures of family and friends. The secrets of hidden admiration have been whispered there and even the cupboards hold a truth or two, etched within the wood.

Where windows that face the street held the impression of your destination or your firm resolve to go.

That place… not a house, therefore not a home. Where cozy becomes cramped and one can only be alone if the other leaves. Or decides not to return.

Written at 8:58 p.m.