Feeling Like A Thief,

thinking about what I have taken. Without profit
am I guilty? Aware and compos mentis
I walked where I did not belong, thinking only of myself.
Key beneath the doormat,
easy to find. Your walls were attractive,
exploration was too tempting.
I remember my time in your house.
How once inside I became
disorientated, turning right,
left, reconsidering first impressions. Finding
barren walls where I had imagined colours,
art history.

Did you feel uneasy when you returned?
Could you sense me? Was there a lingering
presence, did I leave something behind?
I feel like a part of me stayed.
Smudged walls mark my thoughtless occupation.
Will your next guests feel the stain?
Am I a bad odour to be aired,
dispensed of, painted over. A crack
to be sealed by another's hand.
My unease grows. My guilt
does not kill some need. Jealousy.

I still have your blueprints. Now cold,
unusable. I will always hold them.
Did you find my note? Hastily scrawled,
probably misread, graffiti.
You would not press charges.
Court heard your final testimony.
Have a nice life. Casual,
harmless. Did I imagine the bittersweet
aftertaste? I wanted to speak
across time, to whisper remember me,
have it hang as a picture in your home.
With hope and forgiveness, I wish
to move forwards. Your parting words,
coming from my lips, sound too casual.
Have a nice life. I step out of court,
watching ashes of your blueprints
drifting to the sky above your house.