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That House in Spotswood
Remember that house in Spotswood? The one we joked would be our home.
Corrugated iron roof and a wooden verandah. It was a small house,
But then again a small life didn't scare us. Small is easy to fill
And we had such grand ideas of what to fill it with.
Since that day, in the last eight years,
We would playfully paint that image
With the words we were spending wisely.
And time bore its details so vibrantly vivid.
We would look at it through each other's eyes
And plan how we could fill it with meaning that
We hoped we'd understand.
But, yes, as life does, our image was stained
With horribly jarring spatters.
Yet every time we would grip the brush together
And labour to restore the beauty.
Not only did we succeed, but it truly looked better than before.
Then came the time to part a while.
The world called me to venture outward
And we talked about the prospect of our painting
Gathering a few specs of dust.
So I think what threw me off the most
Was how quickly it took to smear the paint
That had never really dried.
I had believed that it was our portrait, shared.
But perhaps I alone had held the brush;
Heavy with the weight of your resignation upon it.
Had you planned to ever draw with me?
Or just dive right into an art someone else had laid for you?
That Spotswood house, that would-be home
Stands empty; unfurnished and undisturbed.
As for the painting, how quickly it has dulled;
What was once a twinkle in our eye
Is now the severed, last thread
Of where I thought my home was.
