The Old Apartment

I remember the playhouse,
The one we used to call home.


I remember the walls,
Yellowed with our differences,
Clinging like nicotine from your cigarettes.
Contaminating the air.


I remember the bister blemished carpet,
We decided was only kept
To hide the rotten floorboards,
We felt bow under our toes.


I remember the windows,
Mold crept in around the frame.
And despite my efforts to scrub, and bleach,
Save you from Black Death, it spread


I remember when it was empty,
And we sat on the floor,
And shared take out from work,
And we made big plans.


I remember the curtains and the spice rack,
In the kitchen where I baked my love,
And we sat around the table you swore
Was never hers.


I remember the bathmats shag and white.
The linoleum cracked and caulked,
The constant drip of the sink a metronome
for the soundtrack to my life


I remember the liqueur cabinet
Often filled, but rarely full.
The lingering stench of failure
False promise your sobriety neared.


I remember the porch light
The moths danced around,
And how it burned like I,
Waiting for your arrival


I remember turning the lights down low,
Setting the dinner table,
Speakers exhaling on our favorite songs
Answering your call.


I remember the utter despair,
That slugged me in the gut.
I heard echos of what everyone had warned
If he could do this to her, he'll do it to you.


I remember the cardboard boxes
And the translucent tape that sealed away our home


I remember the old apartment,
Where we played house.