the yellow house

Still when I lay my head down to sleep,
if I let myself I can hear the
ticking of the old clock that hung between the windows
the scrape of dishes in the kitchen
and laughter reverberating off those awful beige-toned walls
trailing into the bedroom
and contentment again nestles in beside me.
The pair of them sitting on my bed and
speaking and giving and debating and
hiding
as we grew together but apart and I never realized.
The familiar sliding of the door across the wood and the thumping of heels amidst a string of muttered curses in midmorning rang familiar and warm.
But still the clock ticked and the kettle boiled and the oven unthawed those pizzas and life moved sleepily forward inside that yellow house.
I just never quite realized.