Beach House
Waterlogged wooden
beams held the
house up high
above the shoreline.
Splintered steps lead
up to the decaying
front door,
whose rusted
brass knocker
had fallen to
the sandy deck.
The carpet and couch
smelled sweetly sour.
Like a man made of
ocean mist and
sea salt
had lived their
for years.
But I knew that
I was it’s only
inhabitant.
Other than
the occasional crab.
The former
vacation home,
now vacant
of its owners,
was a haven
for me.
It held my
secrets.
It swallowed my
stress.
It understood
me.
How could it not?
After all,
it was abandoned
and left to rot.
Just as you
abandoned me.
Waterlogged wooden beams held the house up high above the shoreline. Splintered steps lead up to the decaying front door, whose...