A Book of Words That Never Seem To Be Enough

A Story About A House

The house at the end of the world has always been empty.
I've watched it as the flusters of morning began
each and every day.

There was never a car that drove away
no one to leave for work.
I watched it as the light from the day would die out.
No one would find their way home
from a tiring day of living.
It was empty.

As I sat observing
I noticed a light shone through the dirty,
unwashed windows.
I thought that someone was finally alive,
that someone had finally flickered on
the dying lights inside.
I realized then it was only the reflection
of the setting sun.

The budding obsession I had for this house
bloomed into a dandelion,

annoying and when I would find pinpricks of it
in the vastness of my mind where I had put my poison,
I would be reminded that it would possibly never die.

I daydreamed that maybe an old man,
having gotten lost at sea
would return to the grandeur of his home
the home he had made for the love of his life

Or maybe the woman
who was now a widow, would clean up the tears
that lay askew on the edge of the shore
and would rebuild her life
finding a new lover just as the ending credits began
like a romance that had found its perfect ending

Perhaps this house wasn't alone at all,
the family dinners and laughter that lingered
gave it the joy it needed to never
feel the hollowness of a seashell
that the water never wanted to pick up.

I wondered out loud to the birds,
asking and pondering if this house
that lived in its own world
was even aware that there was no one left
to care for it,
to take care of the wounds that would
curse and groan when the wind
was rougher in the nights

The sun rose, and the sun left
every song I had sung
intertwining with the storms
of clouds overhead,
I didn't want this house
to one day realize that it was alone.

To wake up one day
and no longer hear the cries of alarms,
the whimpers of a child
who ran too fast.

How could I be the one
to explain this,
my words would be like a tumbleweed
of nonsense that would forever
continue to spin

I decided to say nothing,
instead drawing with the tips
of the fingers that had
fallen into the wrong heart

I took notice of the way the
grass slowly transitioned into sand.

A blank canvas,
ready to be drawn on by the footprints
of its neighbor.

I almost pitied it.

The fence that created its boundary
had been neglected.
It only wanted a line,
to say what was theirs and what was mine.
Soft waves of water slowly came onto the shoreline
barely enough to whisper hello.
Its deep midnight blue color
contrasting against the lightness of the sky above.
The nameless house
was made of worn down wood,
an aging grandfather whose time
would soon run out

Its white wrap-around porch
begged me like a child
wanting one more piece of candy,
to pull up a chair and sit.
To let the wind consume me
and my thoughts,
weaving through patches of dying grass

The greyness of the clouds,
mixing with a speck of purple and a hint of pink
that gave the emptiness of it a lift.

Gripping and pulling at the heaviness
that had come to lay at its foundation,
becoming lighter as the minutes passed by.

There was still no life left in this house,
no person who could live alongside it
to one day pass down its story,
I could tell that the world pitied
this home.

The clouds formed figures
of families and past loves
to fill and carry themselves through
the empty halls of this house,
to continue believing that perhaps
one day this would no longer be a dream,

that the sun would rise
and before it'd set, a car would find itself
parked in the heaps of grass.

I was no fool,
to stay and watch if one day
the shore no longer spoke to the house.

There was no one
besides me left to appreciate it.

In realizing this truth,
bidding a farewell through a wave
and a nod

I knew that this was the only thing that felt right,
in saying my goodbye.