Home

The odor of Quicklime. Dampness of naivety. Empty walls; not a nail dug in. Sandpaper polished floors of mosaic. Ladders leaning on walls, stood on to paint the upper reaches. Stools toppled. The fresh varnish on window grille.


I saw a home today, since then I have been pining to write this. The window ledge is wide enough for me to sit on and write. Unrestrained. There would be just about enough space for your books & beanbag, after we have spread out the couch. I am not imagining all this, as I stand in that empty living room, I can see it like it were real. That close.

The smell of shampoo in the shower, my lotions, creams crammed on the bathroom shelves jostling against your shaving kit. Clothes dumped on our floor. I can even hear your voice, shrill and loving, calling out my name. My faint response, a headnod, not realising that you're not in the same room and cant't see me nod. All that.

All this, standing here now, staring at the pond that begins where out portico ends. Lilly buds in its dark water. The mild forest air. Dozens of eucalyptuses. Our windows, facing east, south east. The coarse touch of the curtains. My fingers can almost feel.

The bedroom, keeper our secrets, witness of intimacies traded in faint lit long nights. Closets, worn clothes stuffed in the bottom shelf. Our smells caged inside. Breaths counted, kisses stolen. And sighs. And sighs interrupted by broken laughter.

I saw our new home today. And I needn't write anymore.