The house where love lived

The house where love lived had a skylight, where beams of sunshine would wander in, tickling corners, resting silently. Bird song would fill each room, blood drumming in ears, doors to horizons, sunsets and sunrises, hot coffee in the cold sting of the misty morning. After every trip you would come back, and see it grow. Green fields, balconies, the seasonal tree tapping on the window. Fat pigeons nesting on drooping branches, a red slanted ceiling, an orchid, the light sparkling off a disco ball.

One day, travelling back from the river Styx, you can’t wait to get back home. You missed the warmth and the sunshine and the sound of crackly records. You check your pocket but the key looks rusty now, the locks feel old and stuck. When did the cobwebs start crawling up the walls? When did the bird song die? The light is grey, the sound echoes, the rooms are cold. Perhaps you got the address wrong. Perhaps you have the wrong key. Or maybe you forgot that the house has been empty a long time. Maybe the house was never yours, and you were only visiting.