The dried flowers still hung in their mounts; peeling chips of paint and blankets of dust decorated the frames better than you ever could. You could almost hear the bird songs, sweet and melancholic, as they drifted through the morning air. It was your alarm clock, your heartbeat, your muse.
If you looked outside you could almost see the dried leaves that liked to pile up in your driveway, a rainbow of autumnal hues. Almost. You reached out your hand, a strange pull drawing it to the window frame, glass glazed over by frost and by time, trance-like in the way the cluttered kitchen seemed to waver around you. You could even smell the cider that used to grace the stovetop, the spice violent and soothing all at the same time. The taste of it used to dance across your tongue, bright and cozy and warm. Only now, it was just out of reach.
Ribbons of light drifted lazily through curtained windows, occasionally hiding between the soft clouds drifting across the sky. They didn't stop, rushing from one place to another, never stationary. Never permanent.
This house was never meant to be permanent either. Hairline cracks ran up and down the floral wallpaper, matching the chipped mugs and dented pots sitting atop a shelf that had been threatening to fall down for years. They had even more creases than your hands did, now weathered with time. And loss. You spotted the dainty lines of a spider's web stretched between two of the off-white handles, its bond stronger than the foundation holding this house together. However, even the web's inhabitants were nowhere to be found. It was only you now.
Old children’s toys sat, alone, under the coffee table, faded from the sun, like old porcelain. You couldn’t look at them any longer, before tears welled up in your eyes. You hated the memories they brought up. You hadn’t meant to outlive them all, the soft warm hands that used to play with those toys, telling stories you couldn’t help but smile at. Rosy faces, so alive in your mind you could almost touch them. Now, like the roses you pride yourself on back in your youth, they were nothing but colorful memories. Even their pictures were dull.
Once cozy, the house was now smothering, each quilted blanket reminding you of the people who you once loved, once cherished, once lost. Framed pictures had aged along with you, patchy from the sun and wrinkled from the years. You could still recall every one of their faces: your mom, her mom, your childhood best friend. Even your first partner's photo, when you were both still teenage lovers, instead of old flames, still graced these empty halls. You had meant to take that image down years ago.
Maybe things could’ve been better. Would’ve been better. But now, this house was the sweetest appetizer, and the bitterest dessert. You missed the sound of footsteps running through the house, of children yelling and dogs barking. You missed the soft feel of your partner's hands as they held yours, sitting out on the porch together in the fading rays of sunlight. You remembered when the dried flowers were fresh.
If you looked outside you could almost see the dried leaves that liked to pile up in your driveway, a rainbow of autumnal hues. Almost. You reached out your hand, a strange pull drawing it to the window frame, glass glazed over by frost and by time, trance-like in the way the cluttered kitchen seemed to waver around you. You could even smell the cider that used to grace the stovetop, the spice violent and soothing all at the same time. The taste of it used to dance across your tongue, bright and cozy and warm. Only now, it was just out of reach.
Ribbons of light drifted lazily through curtained windows, occasionally hiding between the soft clouds drifting across the sky. They didn't stop, rushing from one place to another, never stationary. Never permanent.
This house was never meant to be permanent either. Hairline cracks ran up and down the floral wallpaper, matching the chipped mugs and dented pots sitting atop a shelf that had been threatening to fall down for years. They had even more creases than your hands did, now weathered with time. And loss. You spotted the dainty lines of a spider's web stretched between two of the off-white handles, its bond stronger than the foundation holding this house together. However, even the web's inhabitants were nowhere to be found. It was only you now.
Old children’s toys sat, alone, under the coffee table, faded from the sun, like old porcelain. You couldn’t look at them any longer, before tears welled up in your eyes. You hated the memories they brought up. You hadn’t meant to outlive them all, the soft warm hands that used to play with those toys, telling stories you couldn’t help but smile at. Rosy faces, so alive in your mind you could almost touch them. Now, like the roses you pride yourself on back in your youth, they were nothing but colorful memories. Even their pictures were dull.
Once cozy, the house was now smothering, each quilted blanket reminding you of the people who you once loved, once cherished, once lost. Framed pictures had aged along with you, patchy from the sun and wrinkled from the years. You could still recall every one of their faces: your mom, her mom, your childhood best friend. Even your first partner's photo, when you were both still teenage lovers, instead of old flames, still graced these empty halls. You had meant to take that image down years ago.
Maybe things could’ve been better. Would’ve been better. But now, this house was the sweetest appetizer, and the bitterest dessert. You missed the sound of footsteps running through the house, of children yelling and dogs barking. You missed the soft feel of your partner's hands as they held yours, sitting out on the porch together in the fading rays of sunlight. You remembered when the dried flowers were fresh.