A place of all climates and lighting,
where the cracks along the walls are confused with pencil drawings and spider webs.
The thrill of a collapse lingers with every passing sunset.
A second story peninsula lined with wavy antiquated glass and dusty plaster and lathe.
I am me up here on the Northside of the house in the Northside of the city where the sun never directly shines in through the windows.
Where I can look out in every direction and see endless lines of chimneys and tangled oaks introducing themselves to the power lines and streetlights.
A secret I kept between me and myself,
I wrote little notes in places unknown across the room hoping that the future me would find them one day,
or maybe the future, less interesting, owners would understand this place’s significant meaning to the author.
The broken floor board where my brother jumped on the bed too hard; it fell right through the floor.
The crumbling plaster under the window where grandma’s desk use to sit.
The water stain on the ceiling from where Gaston overtook the tin roof.
Away from them rest, the cultivation of maps, weather, and the smell of oil paint would slowly overtake the amber blinds and splintering floorboards.
Those windows grew smaller and smaller with each year.
I stopped patching the holes in the wall.
My only place became the only place
I didn’t want to be.