Our little home tucked between a cross of two busy streets and a buzzing late night tennis court. We left the windows permanently opened and the door never locked. Our bikes leaned in the shade of a fairy lit tree under the high kitchen window. The light poured across our minimalist aesthetic we only upheld on Sundays after the Saturdays we cleaned and purged. We spent our late afternoons burning popcorn on the stovetop as we danced barefoot in each others shadows. We lit candles to put in the window sills and let them fill the rooms with subtly as we took our packs of reds to the porch steps. As the smoke drifted into upstairs windows, conversations about our reckless youth stayed with us while our burnouts found a home in a plant we could never keep alive.
We were a mess of tangled hair in the bathroom sink, dirty dishes piled high of weeks past, broken champagne glass under the electric stove. Fights our neighbors couldn't help but hear, washing machine that made us want to self medicate, stalled car you had to push while I steered to the side of the road, burst pipes causing cold showers. Walks in opposite directions, ripped blouses on metal park swings, plum bruises and broken skin from the bed we never bothered to finish.
Still, I cooked you dinner and you made me laugh. We drank cheap wine as we gossiped. We never cared who heard. I wrote about how I found you so beautiful just sitting in a coffee shop unaware of how the sun streamed in through the window. You came home with bags full of thrifted finds, we'd wear them out to dinner, and be convinced that life could always be that good. I patiently dyed your hair the same shade of brown because you knew how to cut mine the right length of short. We spoke honestly to each other even if it were through choked tears. I called you a cunt, you called me a bitch, and we'd belly laugh at how easy it was for us to forgive. I would bring you ranunculus the first of every month to celebrate us until you kindly reminded me that I was always a month too eager.
Soon we will find ourselves with such distance between our little house on Russell street and we will forget about our road trips to nowhere in a car with windows we couldn't roll down, eating brunch at very non brunch hours, yelping Japanese hotpot as we shared a burrito in an empty parking lot. We won't remember how we got high together and watched the world spin faster than we've ever seen before, pretended to be asleep in order to avoid any uncomfortable run-ins, spent barista tips at the corner store on cookie dough ice cream and hot cheetos puffs because we felt like it. We will stop thinking about how we found ourselves at a nude beach fully clothed, watched teenage kids light fireworks in the outfield as we drank bottles of cider on the bleachers, compared each others dry almond milk cappuccinos till we settled for a tie.
However, the left side of the bed will never feel quite the same.