the floorboards always chattered
when we bothered them,
groaning and creaking at the weight of sin,
strained at the pounds of flesh
that gravity tugged with deliberate patience.
but our steps became slower, the passion mundane, and i can almost hear them sigh,
whether in relief or regret, i still don't know.

and the walls were not much quieter, especially when the wind went to kiss the roof the way we would kiss each other--strange familiarity.
etched into your palms and written on old postage stamps
addressed to the letters i never got to send you--déjà vu.
but then again, our fall out felt just as familiar.

reminded briefly that by definition a house can be a synonym for home, but webster never left any clues as to how to keep it that way.
our sheets are twisted and the tired joints of our fingers that held together the seams of memories and intangible bonds between us threaten to let loose as we slept.

tell me. when did we wake up strangers?