I always liked houses that weren't mine

I always liked houses that weren't mine. The cousins' in Chillicothe where I gashed my foot in the basement, or their neighbors' where a dog bit my face. Trampoline memories and an above ground pool. Acres and acres in the middle of nowhere with ATVs. Cats in the garage at twenty a plenty. Big white pillars as we trick-or-treat. The house actively getting robbed across the street. A cool attic room and a cool high school girl, doing cool high school things. We got to pretend we were her. We ducked down at entry of her chandelier. The places we were taken and faintly remember. The history of every house I've been inside. Caressed by the neon lights after prom with faded drunken teen memories. Another basement where I had my first kiss. Why do things always happen in basements? In mine there were unfinished dodgeball fights with my brother's friends. His friend's big house and standing swing without them. Coming up with dance routines, then running into the forest. A proper lemonade stand and raspberry's from the side of the house. Kissing another one of my brother's friends from inside of the house. Inside of the closet playing video games. Kicked out as soon as I was rude. Forcing her on a whiteboard to become anew. Dip dying my hair and more closet shenanigans. When you're just kids things are so random. Like a dream... like a dream.