Every black line between wood
is a familiar memory,
I always thought I'd like this house
but I never did,
I loved you, though, so that was enough.
Now its just me and the house
beating up on each others' insides.
And you don't even know how it feels,
To be two thirds of a whole,
without your favorite piece.
When I leave I won't have the missing third anymore--
But I'll be half again.
This box of darkness never felt like home,
but you did,
And I'm guessing you won't come here either.
(written November 18, 2010)
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