The Last House

Every time I think it's love, I make a list of chores. I build a house, hang some curtains, and polish all the floors. I clean a closet so there's space for more and unlock all my doors. That way, you know when you come visit, this house is also yours. Our old houses are never gone, just empty, locked up tight, and even though I know they're there, I've turned off all the lights. They sit like ghosts of days forgotten, left to fade and waste away. Built with wood that has gone rotten, and all the paint has turned to gray. Now my heart is full of houses that no longer hold my soul, and in the last remaining space I have, I've built a house of gold. This house is made for two of us, though I don't know who you are. With windows all along the front, so I can see you coming from afar. Half of the house is empty, to hold all of our things—all your baggage and your laughter, there's room for everything you bring. My walls can hold our memories, my doors can keep you safe, the porch is made for rocking chairs, to sit and talk about the place. I left you on the porch because you didn't bring a key. I opened all the windows, so there's nothing you can't see. You had a thousand chances; to go and grab your things. I build the house, you bring a key; was too much to ask, it seems. Against my better judgment, I grabbed you by the hand. I'll help you pack and carry your bags—one day you'll understand. But when I reached your doorstep, the lights had all turned red. For someone that's so full of life, the house was almost dead. I knocked upon the door, but you wouldn't let me in. There's no room in a house for love where only hate has lived. You told me you were cleaning up, so I settled in to wait. I'll be here standing guard; I'll be the keeper at the gate. But you wouldn't ask for help, and you couldn't let me see, and when the house became too much, you simply asked for me to leave. I'm returning to the house I built, to sit alone out on the porch. I'll clean the dusty corners and light the pathway with a torch. I know the house isn't perfect, but it wasn't built for me. I suppose I'll just keep fixing it until you find our key. It's the best that I can offer, built from all my lessons learned, but if I'm left to live alone this time, this house will have to burn. See, I'm a failure as a builder, and have no more room for empty shells; my hands and back are broken, and my tools are on the shelf. I'll watch them one by one, until I have an empty field, and lay among the ashes of the last house I'll ever build.