Someone's always dead

Sorry property
Or someone’s always dead

Even though they ended and the years bred like guinea pigs
the house of what he/she did still sometimes creaks with mortgage.
Particularly Thursdays in Spring,
presuming the other is not remebering
they mentally stop at the window of yes this is personal, I don’t much want to speak, it is history, I am watching your body language;
to check which props go with which scenes:
the over-padded plan navy sofa
the smirking kitchen cleaver,
the plastic bags pigeoning the driveway.

But none of this remembering can do away with the cold event domino clack which caused them both to flinch their personalities into concrete.

Future partners will inspect the site, be sold the story
of the haunting house that just could not hold all that happening,
but they wont get a glimpse of the head house reality,
or understand why their partner keeps the flat furnished with letters found in bins, why the volumes of apology explanation ordered from the internet are kept in a suitcase labelled misc in a I do not regret it, and am not sorry guilty back bedroom, that the scab hub caps itch in Spring but are slowly healing into maps of I wish I didn’t know the way back to myself.

On Thursdays in Spring
each stops at a window and thinks there should be an auction for the machine,
that they might be rich if only someone had the business sense to sell the recipe which split sorry from sorry and skin from skin.