The house holds

All the souls that have traversed its floorboards

Slept in its beds

Stayed up all night on the black and white kitchen tiles

It holds their dreams and fears in its windowpanes

In its old wood and its newer paint

In the cove ceilings and the narrow stairs

This house is breathing

It is different now than when she was here

The house whispers her name, calling

Its own atmosphere, it stands

A lonely giant

Same crooked pathways and

Majestic warmth but

No lady of the floorboards

She stayed up all night on the black and white tiles,

The house tells anyone within earshot

She listened to Beth Orton and drank red wine and coffee and

Laughed until her voice grew dusky with the passing hours

She caressed our surfaces and bolstered our integrity