I used to be whole, lived-in, healthy.
Families used to fill my rooms with light and laughing feet. But the light has gone. Trees have grown up to protect my nakedness, to shield me from my loneliness. But my home is a ghost town. Bikes and ice creams stopped gliding through the streets. Animals nest in my eves, and no grunting man comes to chase them out with a broom.
Abandoned. I didn't know how that word would taste on my lips. I close my eyes tight.
Damp coldness. The floor creaks under the weight.
photo by Kevin Bauman.