There was a house,
walls touching mine
with cracked wooden planks
for walls.

They were a bright blue
torn and withered,
so full with age.

Workmen gathered around the front,
hoping to tear the turquoise
and the teal chipped wood.

Two friends and I
one small and soft,
the other loud

Scrambling over the fence,
so as not to be seen
although we were alone

And in the house
we lay,
smoking cigarettes
and watching the smoke
curl above us.

So untamed it was,
wild and running,
splitting as drops of rain
leaked from the cracks
in the ceiling.

The sound of our laughter
had filled the house
with more emotion
than I had ever heard.

This was the best day of my life
as we filled a once silent house,
with the drunken atmosphere
of our youth.