I feel it important to note that this is the result of me taking a metaphor and running away on an exploratory adventure with it, and that it is not actually reflective of any relationships I am currently involved in.
Also that this is a prose poem, so there aren't supposed to be line breaks.
Your pilings were built of shitty wood (and it's not your fault; you didn't design the house you've grown into) and they're falling apart beneath the weight of everything in your life. The trophies. The trinkets. The trunks overflowing with petrified baggage. The cheerful pictures you've hung (to hide the peeling paint) shudder as the house shifts again. One of them falls to the floor, shatters, glass impressed into the fibers of the handwoven rug you imported from the Orient.
Looks like glitter, you say. I should get some sparkle yarn and work up a new rug.
I get the vaccum.
The picture was hiding a hole in the plaster. Wood slats cut across the gap, no insulation in sight. Just chewed-up boards and the backside of a brick facade, pristine on the outside but crumbling against the frame.
I should patch that up, you sigh, one of these days.
I think you need a new house.
The house shifts again. You fall over, land on the floor, lie there staring at the ceiling a long time.
I don't have the energy to mow the lawn, you say with a voice fit for a funeral. Could you...?
I'm already out the door.
You are waiting for me when I return, a pitcher of mint water sweating on the coffee table, condensation pooling around the cork coaster. We talk about little things, safe things, the victories the trophies symbolize, the locales the trinkets hail from, the joys the pictures immortalize. We ignore the growing stain on the scarred wood between us, the plaster snowing down from the ceiling, the aching of the brick joints grinding to dust all around us. Instead, we talk loudly enough to drown out the groans of the mortar crumbling away, the creaking of wood dry-rotted and filled with pests, and make a plan for better times ahead.
If moving was as simple as planning, we'd have reached those better times long ago.
So for now, we sit and plan and toss more baggage into the trunks upstairs, patch the walls and sweep the dust, prop up beams and fill in cracks, pack some trinkets and polish the trophies, frame more photos, and hope the house doesn't collapse before we're ready to move.