I have the keys,
but I ring the bell instead.
She opens the door always,
peering from behind,
wary, irritated eyes.

He stands behind her,
holding a ladle, most of the time,
with a soft smile on the face
he greets,
which I meet,
then set my bags aside.

The living room is a tidy map
of corners sectioned as per need,
a corner to pray,
a corner to store,
a corner to watch TV.
Hidden inside drawers
is a room for memories.

But this is not where I live,
but away in a room confined
to sleep, dreams, and reflections,
and one black rectangle
that keeps me aligned.

It is my escape route,
from the noise the vessels make;
in the kitchen when they thump,
on the table where they clamour,
from chasing footsteps that chase each other
to and away in tantrums.

I have one window that slopes
towards a paradise that chirps and glows
I have a door that remains closed
to the only house that I ever had,
love, but cannot adore.

I restrict myself to that one room,
in the end, the darkened corner,
and pass through the clamouring kitchen
and the rumbling living room
every morning,
to step out of that door.