This place is new. Not like, fresh out of the bag new- it's been used and lived in before. People have lived her, loved here, laughed here, cried here before me, and now it remains empty like some hollow skeleton. Memories of their own haunted them in these rooms, these hallways, underneath the windowsills and patio roofs. I walk through the house and run my fingers over it's bones, the walls, and my toes over the sandy half wooden-half tile floors unintentionally thinking, "one day, this house won't be new anymore. It will one day too, carry it's own nostalgic value that can bring back that ache." I know I'm just thinking too much or too far ahead, but I can't dare myself to stop. I catch a glimpse of the feeling of my heart breaking, of my legs walking after the next man that I give my all to. Or my disbelief in the next friend to betray me, my fists angry and blinding white. The next time my mother comes clean about not being clean, my eyes dry from crying.
I envision these occurrences enfolding in the living room, or my room, or maybe on the front patio- instantly, the idea of this new place, my new home, is soiled. I panic.
This place is a place to call my own and make new. A clean slate to start developing and building up for better things, without the ache. Without the memory.
Without weight.
If love is never planted, I will never have to reap what I sow.
If I am careful, this new (clean) feeling will stay, and things will become beautiful again, like sunshine in the summer or campfires in the winter.
Home will be homefree.
