We had abandoned each other in a bustling city surrounded by people who will never understand us in the way we understood each other. Who will never sing the melodies our hearts played as we saw into each other. Who will never understand how our bodies connected to each other to make us feel like one.

The only thing left was our home, still sitting on the hill of our minds staring onto us as if to remind us what we had left behind. The vines have draped over the windows so no one can see inside. The grass has grown tall enough to touch the skies and the trees, overgrown and bushy, sing sweet tunes of delightful memories, that are only meant to be heard not relived.

But when you peek into the inside of the house, the checkerboard floors are still intact and the wood still smells of the fresh oak same as the day we bought it. The chandelier is still glistening with photos of us flashing in every gleam. The extravagant hand made details of what made us individuals are still engraved into the wall. But the floor is squeaky and the roof has caved in due to many secrets weighing it down. The basement reaks of my desperation to be heard and the attic is fulled with his screams for help. Our house-- The house can never be lived in again, but every now and then we visit it to remind us that what we built we never be torn down.