I visited our salty old house today. Do you remember?
She's gone thin, her floorboards have worn out. Her fingers are fragile and the city's growing around her. This massive strong willed city is eating into her. I put a piece of wood into my pocket as I walked out. She didn't let me take much, all houses grow possessive with age. Our couch talks no more, some say it was the ghosts.
You know I don't believe in ghosts.
They'll say anything about a memory that doesn't talk back. The steps are as young as ever though. They still trot, laugh and sigh. They asked me to tell you that they'll always love you. Steps and staircases. You know how they lie.
I didn't go upstairs though, I couldn't summon the courage to. Passion is a dangerous place to revisit. She never dies; this city might eat our house up but Passion, she'll swim through the concrete and invade unsuspecting spaces long after we're gone. She growled. I presume she meant to send her love too.
Our salty old house and the things who make her. They send their love.