but what is a broken home
when you've never known anything else?
anything beside empty chairs
and closed doors
floors that dont tell you
who's walking by the creaks
I dont recall how old I was
when I stopped peeking in your bedroom
every morning
to come crawl into bed with you
it seems so strange to me now
because we cant even seem to look
each other in the eye
and every goodbye is either prior to
or followed by
a sigh
I'm not quite sure when it started
and I don't know
that it can ever be stopped
we fought about simple things,
dinner and movies and
who'd pick up when the telephone rings
the arguments are silent now
nestled between closing doors
and awkward hello's
because we both know
I can never say for sure
when the door
will open again