Lemonade Romance

This is really happening – we take a left 
and continue straight, we stop by the  
ancient she-oak and enter the overgrown property -  
you look around my house in disbelief,  
cheap furnishings and expensive threads, 
close to the city but far from people. 
What are we doing? 
This is all we needed, and so far from what 
we want – the holes in the walls are offset 
by the sunlight streaming in - and who 
needs electricity anyway? The paint splatters 
have dried on the floor – a multicolour mess - 
and family portraits are obsolete anyway. 
What are we doing? 
This is love – well, that's what everybody says  
but I don't believe it – this house holds a thousand 
memories and none of them belong to you or me. 
This house had stood the test of time but the storm is 
rolling in; let the thunder and lightning take the lives of 
the monsters who amble past our windows – perhaps it's fair, well 
what are we doing? 
This is something I wish you saw – but these pages are filling up and 
there's no reason nor rhyme to describe the story within - I call it poetry,  
but what will they recite at my funeral? The wallpaper we scribe is full 
of love – it's certainly romantic, but it’s all been done before 
and we're starting to get bored. Oh, this house we chose has a thousand 
stories but we fill it with bad wine and lemon peels. 
What are we doing?