Our Cottage, Now For Sale

"She is the realest ghost her husband knows."

A little dream castle with every dream gone
is lonely and silent… the shades are all drawn.
And my heart is heavy as I gaze upon
a cottage for sale.

—

Tea-stained china cups stood in place of kitchen counters flowing with warm laughter and old flour. Tables once had charcoal-grilled skewers, medium-rare steaks soaked in butter and herbs, jiggly reddish-purple jams, and fresh pastry. Now? Weapon diagrams. Only to rust and pile in the front yard right by the half-wilted roses.

She is the realest ghost her husband knows.

Because when the missus woke up, the freshness of sunlight-drenched pillows fed from the skylight fluttered in the space between her and her lover. Her routine? A spritz of perfume… and the aroma of white sage and lavender oil danced on the edges of worn wooden chairs where they sat for tea. The taste of sour thrush lingered between wild kisses in fits of restless needs from last night into the late hours of the morning.

Tucked within the grooves where the sandpaper couldn’t quite reach, the remnants of her fingerprints left tracks on every seat rail and cushion they spent hours selecting. The corners of wooden countertops bored blood on the notches from where she forgot to turn just a second later than she should have. The edges rested into the top of her stomach when she dusted flour and kneaded dough. At dinnertime, those edges dug into her sides when she received intimate bear squeezes by her pining warrior. T’was just as fiery as the first time they met.
In the hours of the day, dawn and dusk stretched like she who grinned ear-to-ear. The wall-mounted cuckoo clocks and mushroom-themed tabletops only remind her other half of gentle street market days. Invisible thumps of bare feet on wood pitter patter like the rabbits they used to own.

When she was here, it was the footprints of a goddess that sank into the floor of their home. There were welcome home’s that never ended with my love. Gifts and flowers without any semblance of that three-word gratitude. Regret now hangs like dead branches wishing to be snapped off. When night falls, her clothes kiss dust bunnies in place of kissing him.

She is the realest ghost her husband knows.

He nails up the end of their story on their door: a cottage for sale.

—

A Cottage for Sale (Newfangled Four): https://youtu.be/sQBHFsmRBl4?si=c-_WyBwVEfIZPP2X