Well, I’m here
And you’re there
But once, you were here with me
When I moved into a small apartment
But you put all my clothes away
Where you are, I don’t know
Now your home is somewhere new
The place I left is a different planet now
It’s where I slept in the back room
Where I kept my clothes in the drawer like you asked
It’s where I cried when I needed you to ask just a little more
It’s where we sang it’s where we lied it’s where you taught me how to smoke
It’s where I go when I need to feel like who I am
But now it’s gone, or just you are
So what is left of that dear house?
Did our love seep into walls and leave a mark?
Or is that somewhere else where I can’t get to?
And where do I daydream about when I close my eyes at night?
And what do you remember about what we were?
Am I bad?
Were you good?
Have you scrubbed your life of me?
And when you moved, did you throw away all my things?
Where are my jeans? Where are my shoes?
Do they fit me anymore? Did they ever?
I’ll go back.
I want to.
I can’t stay away from you.
And when I’m there, I’ll sing softly, like we would.
As a reminder as a denial as a lesson I have learned.
I’ll leave who I am, and just a little more.
You can keep it. Or not.
The house is there.
It’s still upright.
It hasn’t sunk or shattered yet.
The door is there, but I’m not sure I can open it.
I never had a key, after all.
Then again, you didn't used to lock it.
I don't know what you do now.
So it’ll stay, in my mind, a place where joy was redefined.
Where it was bad
and it was good
and it was full of me and you.
And where my clothes had drawers,
just not ones all for me.
About the Creator
Tina is a queer writer in Brooklyn, who uses Google mostly to image search 45-year-old women in suits, and Twitter mostly to report on her findings. She has a deep obsession with narrative, a CAROL tattoo, and, relatedly, a degree in film.