The House

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Pull the drapes across the windows, close the windows and shut the door. 

A fine layer of dust is already starting to gather in the house where my love for you lived. I cannot take anything with me, lest by mischance I carry you along. I must leave the furniture we gathered in the house, though I built it with my hands that are stained, rough, chapped bruised and bloody now from the days I spent carving the wood, polishing it until it shone. 

I must leave the knives in the kitchen sink, unwashed as they are, already showing the first signs of their losing battle with the rust. The life is bleeding out of the house, and the effort to keep it alive has left me soulless, I am pouring myself into this bottomless bucket, hoping to fill it, but the house dies without you in it. Now I must go, with only the clothes I wore when I first came here on my back. I go in search of some other house somewhere, where I may lay down my tools and find rest.

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