There were fingerprints on the walls and ceiling

From when we spent the day eating

Green and purple Sour-Babies

And jumping on the old bed.

I remember the springs were gone in the center, we kept falling,

So you held my hands and we jumped on opposite corners.

The house reminded me of a childhood I didn’t have.

It had orange creamsicle colored walls

And rough half-melted linoleum in front of the stove

That would catch your socks on pancake Saturday’s.

 I remember dropping the hot cookie sheet there before Christmas,

And watching it turn the floor crackling brown.

I would rather be in that house than in New York,

And I don’t think you understood that.

But I never listened to myself around you,

It was easier to take your advice.

I remember lying on the bed, our only piece of furniture left,

And I quoted books I’d found under my faded winter sweaters

“Two is the beginning of the end.”

In our new apartment, with the off-white walls and cold metal sinks,

I remember waiting for you to tell me you loved me.

I waited too long.