We wake up in the morning, make our beds, move through time because it won’t wait for us. We vacuum the carpet before the inlaws come over for dinner. We sweep out the garage on Saturday morning. All the while circling and circling that cold hard fact, planted in our front yard for all the world to see.
From where I sit I can just glimpse the sign, slightly bending to the wind’s strong will as it stakes its ground. It waves back and forth. The sharp red letters blinking in the corner of my vision: FORECLOSED, FORECLOSED, FORECLOSED.
When I married you, you didn’t promise this. You made me laugh and tilted your head just so, then and there creating the only criteria for my love. I watch the fading sun spread fingers of light across the bare floors. It doesn’t seem like love is enough anymore.
From where I sit I can just glimpse the sign, slightly bending to the wind’s strong will as it stakes its ground. It waves back and forth. The sharp red letters blinking in the corner of my vision: FORECLOSED, FORECLOSED, FORECLOSED.
When I married you, you didn’t promise this. You made me laugh and tilted your head just so, then and there creating the only criteria for my love. I watch the fading sun spread fingers of light across the bare floors. It doesn’t seem like love is enough anymore.
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