The Bungalow

I walk in and out of the room’s
one at a time.
I whisper goodbyes inhaling
the scent of familiarity,
my true home.

The threat of choking on emotion
as memories glide in,
evenings in front of the TV,
sprawled on the sofa,
She sits on her throne
“Jaim, make us a cuppa”
I move on promising to come back,
to wallow in it all later
away from here.

The fire stands cold,
calling me to ignite it
to unleash its warmth just once more.
I refuse to do so
though my fingers twitch,
hidden in my coat pockets.

The corridor I once avoided
eyes closed, fingers searching for the switch
now appealing to me
making me feel a fool
for ever doubting its protection.
gripping the door handle tightly,
too final to let go but I must.

Leaves cry beneath my feet
as I turn to look back.
Insignificant to others,
just another bungalow.
Three six five Genners lane.

Everything to me.

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