Holes

For a short while I see the old house as it was.  Freshly painted walls, swing seat on the veranda, the old tyre hanging from the oak tree.  But it’s soon swallowed by time, the mist rolling back.  It’s older now, a sold sign swings from the porch.  I stand in the passage, dust motes dancing at the bottom of the stairs.  I remember you standing there with a hole in your t-shirt.  I stick my finger in it and tickle your tummy.  I can’t help but cry, this house soon becoming just a hole where we once lived. 

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