It's an old song
this dance
the notes are well worn
rounded on the edges
and fading into such
bittersweet softness
just a faint
hollow voice
echoing from somewhere
in the back of this old house
wooden slats
from wooden walls
passing the sound with love
until it reaches my ears

It's an old song
this dance.

She sang through walls
the way people only do
when they think they're alone
but hoping they're not
hoping someone is there to hear
and not ever mention it
just appreciate the raw
if not the talent
she sang through walls
and I stood inside the door
watching the paint chip
and flutter to the floor
like autumn leaves
presenting gifts
to the careworn floor.

The house sighed around me
tired of waiting for me
as I stood at the opening
of it's weathered arms
a sharp blue suit
she thought was so pretty
just garish here
before this living history
it speaks, this structure
it's eyes crinkled in the corners
it's lips soft like crepe
as if they could tear
at the slightest touch
it's face dappled
with sun spots
and the little lines
of life passing by.

She sang through walls
like people do when no one cares

"It's the same old song.
The same old dance."