Open doors. I sit on the couch of a friend who is more than that to me. The leather of the couch always seems a slight bit dampened by the ever breathing hanging sulk of dog. My friend’s roommate’s dog. A distant relative to me. And I treat him like it. And he to me. His barks and skiddish distance every time I open their apartment door are a reminder of that far relationship. I’ve been to this apartment many times. Through waves of agony and silence. Through waves of abundance and clarity. And yet it doesn’t ever get used to me. It’s a home that settles into you instead of you settling into it. And I can’t seem to understand if it’s allowing itself to. Maybe because it’s shared between roommates. Home has a different sense of open when you share it. I haven’t felt the feelings of sharing in a while. And I think it knows that. This home is made by the balance of two. Sometimes when you add a whole person to one side it messes everything up. I feel guilty very easily. I’m just now realizing. Guilty of the space I take in a world that isn’t mine. And I think the house knows that. A house is like a child with the body of a building when shared. Roommates as the parents. Nurturing is hard. But with time, easy.