it was the house at the
end of the street, empty,
cracked paint peeling,
dripping pieces of
what was supposed to be
on the forgotten path where
two young lovers once
planned their lives thinking everything
would only get better
as they danced to the rhythm of
Bonnie Raitt and whispered of visions
where their childrens feet ran across
the old oak floor being chased by
the dog while they made love
before breakfast and set
off to their wonderful jobs

now all that is left
is the sound
of the leaves tap-tapping on the
dirty window of the attic
in staccato to the
beat of feeling of falling
as another paint chip falls quietly
to the dried grass
like the dreams they once shared