House of Memories

The favorite thing about the house I’ve build for myself, is the walls. The walls keep intruders out, they keep me safe, they hold in my memories and thoughts. These walls are impenetrable, the mere thought of me letting someone in behind them, is close to none. At least they were, right up until the night I met her. She’s beautiful, with her long raven black hair and crystal blue eyes. When she dances, all eyes are on her. Mine certainly were, when I saw her at the club, hips swaying in perfect tune with the music. When I brought her home, I did so because she was gorgeous, her laugh enticing, and her eyes had a sparkle to them like nothing I had seen before. The talking threw me off entirely. She just wanted to sit cross-legged on my bed, smoke cigarettes, drink black coffee and talk. I’ve never been much of a talker, that’s exactly why I have my walls, my little mental house, where nothing gets through. Neither in nor out, it’s there for a reason. I don’t want people to know me, it’s so much easier if they don’t. Because I’m not sure I particularly like what’s hidden behind those walls, and you shouldn’t share something if you don’t like it yourself. I did that night, I told her things that aren’t meant for other people to know. She nods as if she gets me, and for once in my life, I feel like someone does. When she leaves at four in the morning, she doesn’t seem scared nor disgusted with me. If anything, she wants to see me again, to talk further and get to know me. It’s terrifying, heart wrenching and wonderful at the same time. I think it’s love.