This house that is not my home creaks at night. My inability to sleep allows me, and only me, to hear these little peeps, while everyone else is off, dreaming, and living in their head. I like being the only one to hear these little noises, though. It’s like this house that is not my home and I have something special; something only ours to share. It’s our own little secret, these murmurs in the dark that I am lucky enough to hear. I’ve always wanted to whisper back and say “House that is not my home, what are all these cracks at night? Is there something on your mind? Don’t think that I don’t care. What’s wrong in your life?” But then I stop myself, because if I talk back, then it’s no longer something so special, or unique. It would become just another thing to do at night while unable to sleep, and being a creature of habit never suited me. So I stay real quiet at night, and listen to those subtle little rickets in the darkness, and I smile. Although this house is not my home, these noises bring about a sense of comfort and love, and satisfy my compassion for where I’m at. I have a secret with my house that is not my home, and its mine to keep.