A hammer is drawn back,
drywall crumbles to the ground,
revealing pink foam, soaked–
speckled with fuzzy green leisions.
The edges of the wood floor curve upwards,
scooping remnants of the living room into their palms.
Support beams shiver nervously,
stripped naked, surrounded by machinery.
The sofa, couch, and coffee table displaced,
tipped on their sides and expelled
from the plastic-encased room,
held in place by bright blue tape.
Possessions scattered, making room
for the demolition of a house
we built together, a home
that must be rebuilt, together.
We fled the scene with one suitcase containing
dress slacks, passports, and beloved childhood blankets,
and the realization that custom-built computers,
little black dresses, and even homes can be replaced.
New walls, new ceilings, new flooring: a courtesy
following ten years of monthly fees. And with it,
a newfound appreciation for ragged t-shirts and toothpaste,
stumbling upon the subtle joy of leaving everything behind.