A house.
Four walls, a roof.
A container.
It keeps things in,
Lets nothing out,
Not even hope.
Feelings wither,
Unreciprocated,
Damaged,
Both, apart together.
Dreams die,
Strangled,
Unarticulated,
In these silent rooms.
Side by side
We sit and hide
From each other,
Unliked lovers.
Here, in this house,
We see only
Something
Neat, painted,
Well decorated,
Cracks papered over.
We do not see
Ourselves.
We have too different
Visions of love.
Perhaps nothing
Is what we wish to see.
This place is
A building,
Peopled,
But not lived in.
This is
A house.
This is not
A home.
Writing Me Up 
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