the house i lived in, went missing. it walked away, i suppose, like baba yaga's hut on lanky chicken legs. it kissed me on top of the head in imitation of a human, it blithely walked out leaving behind a shucked-off shabby wooden exoskeleton, a carapace that i could cling to with my hands. but the pulsing soft center of it had gone.
i sat on the chipped honeycomb tile of the bathroom floor, but only after you'd left. i put tiny half-moon marks in the giving flesh of my upper arms while i thought about the places on my body that your tongue had visited often, when my temple touched the cool porosity of the beast-footed tub, i thought about the times we couldn't look away from each other in the half-dark and finally slept with our damp foreheads pressed together. in the front parlor which awkwardly held a bed that wasn't ours, you gave a shrug and a smile even after i showed you the ugliest, the darkest parts of my brain and my heart. at the very center of the wooden structure, months earlier, we'd reified something as the snow fell. the something bought us entrance to the back-most room, which became a proper bedroom for the first time in at least five years.
later, this breathing house disgorged me unceremoniously. it settled back on its chipped cement haunches, i can only assume, after i left, and swallowed you up again eagerly late that night. it lapped you up and this lit its rooms goldish-warm. Smug and satisfied and amoral as Nature in its ramshackle exclusivity.
now in my spartan and over-expensive treehouse that is not a home i imagine i can see the house i lived in, two miles away as the crow flies. i can reach across the distance and prise the roof away with my giant clumsy hand and extract the secret mollusk heart, i could split that house in two, and grow myself a whole new house.