to be honest,
i will really quite miss this house.
when we are gone,
and our silhouettes and fingerprints
have evaporated from the halls
and doorways, when the indentations
of our bodies have silently fled,
i hope this house will not forget
the things that happened here.
maybe its bones will grow around our absence,
and mend, and grow again;
the blackbirds will rest
upon the windowsills:
hollow, still.
there will be no more cigarettes lit and burned,
no more wordless apologies or broken glasses.
and though there may be other families,
they will not be like us,
and this house will keep us in its thoughts;
like this we will remain.