I believe somewhere in the aftermath,
when we were picking up the pieces,
a little bit of you got mixed up
with the pieces of my heart.

I keep those pieces in a jar
on the mantle in my favorite room
of the house we never built;
a house that has few windows.

I go there from time to time
to view the hanging mural memories
and feel the sweet velvet flutters where my heart used to be.

Everyday,
another little piece of me,
another little piece of you
is lost somewhere in a room
of the house we never built;
a house that has few windows.

An empty glass on the table –
A chair that’s moved from here to there;
I know you visit too at times.

But visits are less frequent,
and it’s smaller than I last remember.
Everything is less,
except the pain that moves my blood.

I always hope I’ll see you there,
in the half-light of my favorite room;
a room in the house we never built –
a house that has few windows.

©2008 Pale Yellow Music/ASCAP