Where the Roses grow.

In a silence of a solemn sort,I stood facing my old apartment building,

My empty flat now had new occupants,

They'll paint the walls in different colours,and breathe new life into the dust.

Standing there,on an unusually cold morning,thoughts unassociated with the house raced through in a reverie,

Bittersweet,lemon squeezed in every fleck of past-

The time I was two or three,and a cousin had showered a flurry of sand  into my eyes,and for a day,I couldn't see.

And then,my seventh birthday,away from home,being  carsick on a hill top,and the faint memory of my mother telling me the very draw-able,white flowers with bright yellow centers are called "Esthers",the new feeling of the word on my tongue and the old feeling of vomit stinging my throat.

Today,these new strangers would come and clean up the nostalgic chaos the house was laquered in,

The words and thoughts hidden like safekept secrets inside it's depths.

And I don't feel half bad anymore,back at  my new home,standing on the prickly green grass-

My planted feet,firm,feel like they've always been there,known no better-

Always dwelt  among this silent slope,with dwindling butterflies in hues you din't know even existed.

It no longer feels different,distant.

Breaking into this newness.