A Series of Observations

My bedroom has always been a sacred space. The only place that’s mine.

You were the first man I ever let inside, the first I told I loved.

All in those four comforting walls.

My bedroom is my heart, with blank white walls that reflect the ending days colors, waiting for memories to be hung on them. A bed big enough for two, but ever homing one. Books full of stories of what I wish life could be and a door that never closes properly.

You came and gave those blank walls colors, even on cloudy days.

You laid with me on the bed now complete with two, and I never found myself worried about the broken door.

My bedroom, that sacred place, the only place that was mine.

You were the first man I ever let inside, the first I told I loved.

All in those four haunting walls.

The first I ever told I loved and the broken door, the one that would never properly close, did nothing to keep you there.

My bedroom, my heart, that sacred place.

The walls remain bare, the door still broken, and I am the only one it keeps inside.