Unfamiliar.

Part 2 of posting bad poetry.

This place looks unfamiliar,
like I haven't been here before.
Except the doormat's mine,
my washing up is by the sink,
I'm sitting in my chair.

The smell, quite funny,
hits you harder the first time.
The wall I'm staring at
reflects in the most
unfamiliar of ways: a golden glow.

Except that's not me
in my chair, in my house.
Slender legs, crossed, dirty
feet hidden beneath pale skin.
Lays back, her house, our house.

Her features make sense
as she turns, greets with a grin:
"You're home early." I am?
She laughs. I must have said that out loud.
That means I'm here, somewhere.

The walls bend back,
picture framed memories grow,
staged for friends.
Where do we keep bottled emotion?
"It's under the bed". Right.

I slip under the glow
and into the arms,
I've been here before, but not like this,
they're used to abuse.
This is unfamilar.