Where You Might Reside by Luca Budofsky

It was a rickety old house,

nestled in a quiet neighborhood, 

set back from the street. 

The city was not far, 

but far enough that the pedestrians walking the tree lined streets 

were the same each day. 

They made solemn exchanges, 

nods of recognition as they passed. 

A simple familiarity, 

a sheltered bubble was the town, 

and the house was not dissimilar from its surroundings. 

The interior was relatively simple

generic even,

but not unpleasant. 

The hallways wore a faded violet. 

Foggy blue stripes lined the parlor, 

a shadow of its previous owner. 

At times I would sit on the stairs and stare at the stripes 

until behind my eyes they faded 

into the rolling hills of English moors, 

where fog hung low 

and the wind was brisk. 

The paper covered walls did not feel like mine

but the expanse of foggy planes did. 

On the walls of my second floor bedroom

I tacked an array of art. 

Delicately preserved magazine clippings with crumpled edges, 

glossy posters yellowed and faded with age, 

bubbled letters of sentimental graffiti, 

drew the walls closer. 

The sun leaking through the square window 

cast the void of black ink 

into a quiet city of colors and shapes, 

tall buildings with flickering lights 

and preoccupied pedestrians, 

each with their own ambitions,

relationships to reminisce,

dreams to pursue.

In the quiet hours of night

the house would moan 

as the wind shook its foundation,

imitating artificial spirits 

dwelling in the drywall. 

I did not mind, though. 

The idea of supernatural acquaintances humored me

as discontent drifted to restless sleep.