My house told me not to speak to you
because you are trying to take me away.
The walls cried when I ran my hands
over its peeling paper covered
in royal blue, silver, gold.
What was once walls of a palace
sat withering where the glue no longer stuck.

The pipes groaned
          when I turned on the faucet,
          with it filled a bucket of water
The floors squeaked in fear
as the mop ran over its surface.

The curtains blew into my face,
          wrapping around my body,
its flimsy hands
          grasping at my limbs,
          holding me in place
as I opened the windows.
I step away, and they lay limp
on each side of the glass frames,
          feeling abandoned.

The windows
          howl at me,
their breaths
          tickle my skin.
The feathery
          caress reminds me
of my childhood,
          sitting by the window
on a breezy day,
          my face beside the opening.

The door does not welcome me
as I turned to leave, its rusty knob
catches      several      times
squealing as I let go,
begging me to remain inside.

As I place the key
into the lock,
the click silenced the walls,
                            the pipes,
                            the floor,
                            the window,
                            door.
Stillness follows me as I walk
                                              down the pathway
                                                                          towards your car.

My house makes its final plea
through the flickering          lights
above the garage doors
before leaving us in              darkness.