Your old house is up for sale again. I walked past it yesterday.
I wondered about the people who were selling up. About what had happened in their lives. Were they happily moving on, trading up, finding a better view? It isn’t hard to find a better view than the one your old house has. A short shrubby garden out front. At the rear, tram lines beyond a back garden full of secrets, overgrown with a mossy lawn. I remember it. I remember summers when it was neat. I remember you, sitting on your back doorstep, watching the flying ants. I remember dripping condensation from a glass onto the back of your neck.
The house is empty now. The owners have already gone. No curtains at the windows. No furniture in the rooms. Different wallpaper to when you were there. Different carpet.
I walked past and I stopped to look at this house where you once lived. I looked, and felt regret.
Regrets fade, just like bruises. The words we spoke are echoes in a distant past. Even memories fade and alter. Did I ever really lift the hair from your neck and kiss you? Were we ever really there?
In response to a Past Postcards tweet.