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So perfect our home
The white so bright
The sterile sense
Of everything untouched
By day or night
Reflecting us

When did we turn
Into the ghosts
That roam these perfect rooms?
When did we better treat
The fabric of the covers
Than the roses that might bloom
In windows in the sunlight
Or somewhere in our hearts
When did that start?

We never speak
For words would rock serenity
The white stillness of this place
I’ve forgotten what you sound like
I can’t recall your face
We’re alien in rooms
We take up too much space
All alone
In our perfect home

(c) Helen Valentina 2019