house on a hill

We built a house, you and I. High up on a hill. We thought it would be safe there. We thought we would be safe there.

We built the first room together, veiled by the callous winter weather. Its walls were strong, like our love, ceilings high, like our expectations. It was beautiful. Just like our dreams. It wasn’t long before the roof started leaking. We didn’t notice though, we were lost in eachother’s eyes. When the walls started crumbling, we thought it was because of the paint.

The second room was smaller, because you’d grown comfortable in the first and you didn’t want to leave. The weight of your expectations was too much for me to manage by myself, and so the ceiling touched your head. You demolished it with your anger, and we started once again.
Once the walls touched the sky, I thought I’d be allowed to fly. But you capped the top with your hopes and thoughts and before I knew it, I forgot that I even had wings.

The third room was mine. I built it on my own. The house was collapsing; all I wanted was to save it. You weren’t interested, you liked the smell of paint and plaster, and you thought you could repair it. I was worn by then, and you could tell. Yet brick after brick, I’d lift and stick. This was the widest room by far, and I settled in a corner. Looking up, I’d count the stars as the cold crept in.

I woke up one day to find you gone. After years of building I was the only one left to watch the walls cave in.
It was February. The earth smelled like death. You discarded all the memories you swore you’d never forget. I was distraught. I was riddled with rot. I was a physical embodiment of the love you forgot.
And so I left. Leaving behind everything but the skin on my bones. I left it unlocked. I couldn’t think of anyone who might want to find a way in.

The house we built still stands. High up on that hill.
Its weathered walls are marked with our hands. The floors inside are caked in sand.
The house we built, still stands alone. The house we built was never a home.

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