The house smells like lavender,
clinging to the wood of her porch.
Molly’s laugh peels through the screen door—
a reminder of the way she greets the moment—
a glass of red wine balanced in one hand,
the other, carefully resting on her hip,
like she’s auditioning for a role
she’s already cast herself in.
Inside, her house sways with its own stories—
a lazy tide of late nights and Sunday mornings,
the furniture draped in hand-me-down denim,
each cushion bruised by bodies
that never stayed too long.
There’s a dent in the hardwood floor
from a fight she doesn’t talk about anymore.
A spot on the wall she calls her temper—
she won’t paint over it.
Molly believes in forgetting—
she says weekends are for starting over,
and so we let go.
We forget the eccentric candleholder
on her nightstand, she swears she loves—
the one that smells of mint
and something sharp.
The reason her fridge is almost empty,
or why her cat won’t leave her bedroom.
We forget the names of men
who left with her laughter
stuck in their teeth.
She turns up the radio,
dancing barefoot,
toenails chipped and smeared with polish.
She throws her arms out
like she’s trying to hug the whole **** room,
whirling into a blur of long legs
and burnt orange hair.
I can’t help but watch,
the sun and her dress fighting over
who casts the better shadow.
The warm night unspools
into red wine and half-sung songs,
her stories merging into mine,
blurring the lines
between heartbreak and nostalgia,
between her freedom
and my quiet envy.
She’s so good at pretending,
you can almost forget
there’s something hollow in her voice,
a small crack she can’t quite smooth over.
Sunday late afternoon—
the wine bottles are all uncorked,
and Molly is a closed door.
I leave her house slowly,
stepping over the ghosts she didn’t name,
leaving her with the quiet murmur
of her breathing walls.
I drive home in silence,
thinking of the scent of lavender
still clinging to my clothes—
that smile, already setting the stage
for next weekend’s chance
to start over again.