There was so much empty space
Around us, when we moved in.
All those white walls, freshly scrubbed
Down to the cracks and scotch-tape
Marks the previous tenants had been
So kind to leave us. The tightly-shut
Taps in the bathrooms cast an unfriendly look
And it took a few days, for our beds
To feel slept in, for the washing to hang,
Properly, on the line. We liked
The neighbours and they smiled
Every time we encountered them
On the stairs. The ones whose names
We exchanged for the spare key even
Stopped, to chat. In the end, we left
Not only space behind, but friends
And bible studies, and kisses and plays
That our free time forced us into.
And what was strange was this;
We didn't bump into anyone,
Running down those stairs with our
Bookshelves and old chests, and
When we left, as quietly as we'd come,
There were no dramatic farewells,
Nor any romantic adieus that
My sister and I might have hoped for.
After all, this meant more than months
And years, but nearly a quarter of
Our childhood. But we didn't weep either,
Because it was, as they say, time.
We also never missed, since home
Isn't something rented anymore, and
We're never far away. In fact,
I could go back in just a walking minute.
I think I did a Kaavya with "we didn't weep". But like her, I'll have to say it was unintentional.