Haunted House

Ghosts trapped in the same house. All this furniture and decorations collected and displayed to become cruel reminders of our demise. Waking up in separate beds, in separate bedrooms to a day that has different hours. We walk around in the same two story house never seeing each other like we have been cursed to our loneliness together.

Words have lost their meaning, sentences don’t have a leg to stand on, arguments still born lay lifelessly on the beautiful wood flooring still shining new. In fact everything around us looks unoccupied and brand new. A beautiful collection of solid oak furniture in the living room still filled with enthusiasm to sustain our love.

Every seat empty, the dining room table reminisces the two thanksgiving dinners we had with actual guests over, each guest thinking the person sitting next to them was the weirdo of the dinner. The truth is they all were weirdos like we were, like we are now. And perhaps that’s what threw us together like rising dough —festering, stirring, building heat, steaming and rising.

Now sitting on the floor in this empty white room, I keep wondering when does minimalism simply become an empty room. Who draws that line, who makes the call, who says stop, turn around, don’t drown.

I love you to infinity. If this is the end, I am ready. But I know no one will ever compare to what you gave me.

E. Saglamer