A Collection of Random Tidbits of Writing

Empty House

I don't like to think about our house, old, falling apart, moss on the walls and ivy coming in through our stained glass window.
I don't like to think about the lights along our stairs, glass broken and blackened, a stair or two collapsed into darkness below.
I don't like to think about the big leather chair, beaten and torn, a lonely angel statue fallen into it's embrace, sand swept over the rough wooden floors.
I don't like to think that if you're still, and listen, at just the right moment, you can hear soft, sad piano music float through the vines hanging through our broken ceiling Still. Mournful.
I don't like to think about the moonlight, the gentle moonlight, that would seep in every crack and shattered window, casting a haunting glow on the abandoned tables and chairs, books and candles left to dust.
I don't like to think about our house like that, when we have been gone a hundred years. When we are but faintest memories of flickering life, ghosts left dancing through the walls that hold our portraits and promises.
I don't like to think about it, but I do. And that's when our house makes me cry.