Your bungalow is in oldsville, this is a creepy part of town. I used to wonder how you came to live here. I cannot knock on your door. I do not dare. I cannot watch you open your door. The sight of you would be too big and too absorbing. I cannot focus in your part of town. The bus stops at bus stops, I am watching the road. Watching the pavements, the square flat stones. They are cracked, weeds grow from between them, grass grows from the shadows in between them, from their bewitched grey corners. Every stone here has a soul, that soul is part of yours. The part of town you live in is haunted. I cannot think of you living here. Thoughts of your life here are seduction and burial. Your part of town smells like hesitation. You do not wait for me any more. I cannot get off the bus here, stand in this street. I cannot touch any of the things that you see from your windows. The place where you are happy would fade me away. So much of this is just a story. I cannot repeat the words. I can not cry that loud. The sound would fill this part of town, soak it, then crack it, make it never have happened.. |
| How I Came To Hate Bungalows |
|
| by Chloe Meakin |