our house

I walked by our house today the one you said you'd buy before our plans fell through. I can see the grass that has since been trimmed no longer the jungle where you chain-smoked and promised me the house as you kissed me and told me you loved me. People have since moved into our house, replacing our lovedrunk giggles with engine roars, silent moments full of tension, the euphoria of young love, nothing but background noise to their door slams. I try to pick out bits of conversation as I tip-toe by to hear if they're as happy as we once were years ago. Walking past, I smell your cologne and feel your arms wrapped around me. But what I don't feel, or rather, don't let myself feel, is how much I miss you and how badly I hope that when you walk past our house you think of me, too.