The taxi drops me off in front of this house,
Isolated, on the edge of the vast woods.
It’s pleasant outside,
And the lights stretching across the lawn invite me to step forward.
You open the door and run to me,
Taking my bags under your bare arm.
You’re happy to see me in good health,
And we go inside together, holding hands, just like last year.
Inside, my girlfriends are there,
Sitting on the couches, all giggling.
Everyone who has ever mattered is here :
You and the others, my buddies and yours,
in this cabin that is now ours.
Your black cat comes to rub against my legs,
My old basset hound wags his tail when he sees me.
You’ve tidied everything up to prepare for my arrival, I can tell:
Everything is clean, and even the fridge is full (lots of ice cream).
So many people in a single room,
Familiar faces who’ve come just for me.
We drink beer without abusing it,
No one pulls out any plastic baggies for the appetizers,
I don’t throw up the dinner we share,
(The one you prepared together)
(My favorite dish, which I haven’t eaten in years)
There’s good music, you’re all laughing,
And I’m not afraid of the shadows in the dimly lit hallway.
When it’s time to go home, my friends hug me tight.
You hold my waist as you say goodbye to them,
Then you leave me too, I don’t know why.
The cat and the dog are nothing more than empty bottles rolling across an uneven floor,
On the doorstep, you’re all mere faceless silhouettes.
Soon, there is nothing left but this white noise and this landfill typa smell.
Flies crash into me, carried by cold drafts like on that wasteland in Copenhagen.
The room shrinks, but I can’t get out.
The lights go out and darkness greets me.
The girls’ laughter fades away in a long hoarse echo,
The roar of your pickup truck finishes me off ; in a few seconds you’ve left the dirt road.
This house is no longer a house.
This house is not a house.