Talking to the Walls

The lease is up. After twelve short months in the apartment, it is time to say goodbye.

 

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It’s 7:04 and I’m sitting in the empty hallway, talking to the walls.

They’re whispering.

“Remember when?” 

Remember the knocks at the door? The good. The bad. The cops.

Remember the heights marked along the door frame?

Remember the pacing? The laps? The voices, merrily shouting out to each other?

The hallway murmurs, “Remember?”

 

The porch sings as the setting sun glints across her wooden beams.

She sings songs of beer and bare feet and summer air.

Her lyrics spin tales of the weight of carefree people dancing across the old black tiles.

The notes stretch out around words of sparklers and night skies and secrets escaping into the universe.

The porch sings, “Remember?”

 

The bathroom snickers from the other side of the hall.

He is remembering firefighters and flooding.

His sighs elicit glimmers of nights that hit a little too hard.

The bathroom smirks, “Remember?”

 

The living room is bellowing.

“Here is where the best of times were had,” he boasts.

All the people. The parties. The dancing.

Here is where we feasted. We played. We talked. We slept.

Here is where we loved. We grew. We learned.

The living room beams, “Remember?”

 

The bedroom is peaceful.

She is not without her stories.

Each word is beautiful. Memories of morning light, laced with hundreds of blurred dreams.

Her creaks divulge so much.

The bedroom urges, “Remember?”

 

I trust this place. The memories made here have been some of the best of my life.

These walls will collect more stories long after we are gone.

But they will never forget ours.

 

It’s time to go.

 

I turn off the lights and shut the blinds.

 

“I’ll remember,” I whisper into the emptiness.

The lock clicks behind me, “Goodbye.”

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