When you aren't home, the walls speak to me.
The floor heaves with exhausted breath,
and the furniture creaks unprompted,

asking me to leave.
We call this home so often,
but only together. Alone,
we feel unwelcome here.

We both know. It's because
we painted the walls with our loathing.
We didn't mean to. And now I want nothing

more than to start new with you,
in a moderately clean home
with plain white walls.