The Stuff of Us

There's a place inside my head full of stuff. Old, burnt out crap, stuff I should have ditched long ago. Stuff that once burned.

On sunny days, the light floods in but I never open the windows during my incarceration. The air is stagnant; it barely shifts around the broken sections where the roof tiles cracked in the blaze before they slipped and fell into next door's field.

I'd invite you back in but it's not a space where others feel comfortable. They say it stinks of ash and mould. I'm told to renovate, or better still, start somewhere else.

You should come and take a look; after all it was your place too.

But when I see you, I never find the courage to approach. And you look as if you'd not recognise it anymore.

For you, the stuff of us is a garden where the lawn suffers from neglect. But the wind never wrecks the apple blossom, and the sky is blue, and blue. The wall is high, so very high, and without a single brick disturbed.