It’s an empty cave. A house, a hollow. Walls wall up space between us.

TV static is loud, it echoes like the front door bell you ring when you know I’m not home

I took down the pictures. Half of my house now in storage

The drip from the ceiling soiled my new clothes, it smells like wet filling cement.

You’d think you could regroup, pick the clothes up off the floor

But the desert doesn’t rain, and the house does not change

I wanted something different so I had to move away, but I hope you’ll come see me now I’m far away in LA.

I miss you. I know that’s strange. I’ve spent some time sanding down my rough edges.

That may not have been my house but you were never not my home.