It isn't about the mud we trod into the carpet
on the day we moved in,
or our landlord leaving a
greasy pan in the oven
and it filling the flat with smoke.
It isn't about the time we went out to
Chris's party, and came home to find
the lounge floor flooded from our
leaking leaded lights.
It isn't about the boiler breaking
on your thirtieth birthday,
or when the front door got jammed
and I missed my train.
It isn't about the bumpy floorboards that
make your guitar jump and go
"ca-dunnn!" every time we walk past,
or our downstairs neighbours getting home drunk
without any keys
and vomiting underneath our bedroom window.
It isn't about those things.
It's about the late evening light off the water
streaming into the lounge, all creams and egg-yolk-yellows.
It's about our to-die-for upstairs neighbours
and their show-cat, and their pina coladas.
It's about you painting shelves with trees, and
serving dinner through the hatch like Samantha from Bewitched.
It's about our June tomato plants that are
weighed heavy with their fuzzy green marbles of promise.
It's about the party we had, where we woke up in our tights
with friend's children's pyjama-ed feet around our heads.
It's about coming home and looking up at you,
waving at me.
It's about our estuary view,
and those A-Team posters we found in that second hand shop,
and your grandad's armchair
and my gran's sofa.
It's about me and you
and our walls.