Alone I sit in a room barren of sentiment. There’s no love left in this house that was once a home.  It’s every corner whispers of memories far lovelier than the present.  What we had, what brought us all together, has been picked apart, one cosmically microscopic piece at a time.  This home we built, and with our passion, adoration, and affection serving as the mortar to our foundation, was once a sanctuary from the chaos all around us. Now it’s just another cookie cutter shell with windows and shingles.  I wonder, will the next tenants feel the vacuum of despair, destruction, and destitution?  If so, I hope they have more love than I was capable of protecting.  This house needs a new remodel. Something with more endurance for the storms that are known to roll through here from time to time.  Some new paint for certain.  

Promises were made, futures were planned, love was made like cupcakes from scratch. It should then follow promises were bent and broken, futures burned to ash and scattered to the wind, and the memory of making love cannot be guaranteed accurate.

I never thought I’d be one to believe it couldn’t happen to me.  My cynicism had been tempered before my eyes, and I remained blind.  Hindsight 20-20, I should have remembered, too much of a good thing will always rot from the inside like a spoiled watermelon promising sweet delight.  Cut it open and taste disappointment.  In the end, it was a symptom of the pandemic – my desire to capture time itself.  So how am I so surprised when burning the candle at both ends would bring swift doom and divorce?  I ponder while the ghosts of a future murdered whisper to me from the empty halls I once considered my castle.

Before I vacate, I’ll leave a note: “The windows, once steamy and offering a warm, safe hovel to anyone looking in from the yard, now cry when it gets cold.  Their tears have warped their frames and the glass has sunken to a shallow and fragile state.  Consider replacing at once.”

I could just tear it down.  Start anew.  But these old bones don’t have enough life in them to start again.  Better to shove some spackle in the holes of the walls.  Holes created in heated passion, negligence, and anger.  Just the bare minimum.  Just enough to destroy the ghosts. Cash out and spend the rest of my days a vagabond, exploring roads that don’t exist, destined to cry alone, reflect alone, grow alone, and someday in the not-too-distant future, die alone.