This house feels so very small.
I can still count the number of steps in the dim-lit stairway.
I can still find the light switch with my eyes closed.
But this is only a vague familiarity.
I keep dropping the bath towel
Stepping into the shower
Because I anticipate a hook
That is no longer there.
The light echoes differently here.
I’d forgotten how it feels
To wake up at 3am,
Shivering.
I’d forgotten just how thin these walls are.
I didn’t even know that there was a lock on the bedroom door.
I learned it quickly.
I won’t forget the sound of fists pounding against cracked wood.

My comfort is in
The line of empty beer bottles by my bedside
And a foreign voice on the phone,
Reminding me that this will all be over soon.
The only thing that’s certain
Is that my home isn’t here anymore.