i wonder if I’ll ever fall as hard and fast as I did when I was 14.
i’m in a new house, now.
a new room.
it’s gentle here.
safer than anywhere I’ve ever been.
it’s missing a few touches still, perhaps a poster or two.
perhaps it’s missing you.
you always seemed to make a space feel more like home to me.
with careful hands
you tinkered with my own vision of where I was,
who I was,
Who I am.
in my childhood bedroom you pressed me against the window, kissed me
whirled me around, treading on soft carpets
curled locks of hair around your fingers,
cradled me to sleep.
we broke a bed, bought a new one.
we played house like we were old and married.
teasing each other, loving each other.
You taught me how to be.
you took a simple pillow, or a blanket,
flicked on the switch of a warm lamp light
put your hand in the back pocket of my jeans
and made me feel grown up.
so now I sit in my new room,
in my new house,
with my new friends,
drinking pints in the pub, cooking in the kitchen,
playing house.
making a home.
you’re not here, but I see you in the plants on the windowsill.
the candles beside my bed.
the way I can fall asleep a little faster, a little easier.
Maybe I’ve just grown up.
or maybe it will always be you,
and the memory of a life I pretended to have with you
playing out in front of me.
I think all along it was you that was home to me.
you’re everywhere in my room still, in my happiness, in my adulthood.
you showed me what it meant to be safe.
you built me a house in my head that I’ve finally let myself into.
A home.
blue shutters and a door open
for the next time I fall, however hard, however fast.
I hope you’ll come and visit, sometime.
Sep 18, 2025
Sep 18, 2025 at 7:55 PM UTC
i wonder if I’ll ever fall as hard and fast as I did when I was 14.
i’m in a new house, now.
a new room.
it’s gentle here.
safer than anywhere I’ve ever been.
it’s missing a few touches still, perhaps a poster or two.
perhaps it’s missing you.
you always seemed to make a space feel more like home to me.
with careful hands
you tinkered with my own vision of where I was,
who I was,
Who I am.
in my childhood bedroom you pressed me against the window, kissed me
whirled me around, treading on soft carpets
curled locks of hair around your fingers,
cradled me to sleep.
we broke a bed, bought a new one.
we played house like we were old and married.
teasing each other, loving each other.
You taught me how to be.
you took a simple pillow, or a blanket,
flicked on the switch of a warm lamp light
put your hand in the back pocket of my jeans
and made me feel grown up.
so now I sit in my new room,
in my new house,
with my new friends,
drinking pints in the pub, cooking in the kitchen,
playing house.
making a home.
you’re not here, but I see you in the plants on the windowsill.
the candles beside my bed.
the way I can fall asleep a little faster, a little easier.
Maybe I’ve just grown up.
or maybe it will always be you,
and the memory of a life I pretended to have with you
playing out in front of me.
I think all along it was you that was home to me.
you’re everywhere in my room still, in my happiness, in my adulthood.
you showed me what it meant to be safe.
you built me a house in my head that I’ve finally let myself into.
A home.
blue shutters and a door open
for the next time I fall, however hard, however fast.
I hope you’ll come and visit, sometime.