The House at the End of Sleep

Every night I visit a house I have never lived in but my hands know where the light switch is. The kitchen has a window facing a garden I've never planted but I know the roses need cutting and the gate won't close unless you lift it slightly on the hinge. There is someone in the other room. I can hear them moving— the clink of cup on saucer, a page being turned— but when I get there the room is empty and the tea is warm and the book is open to a page I almost understand. I have lived my whole waking life in the house I'm awake in. But I have loved longer in this one— the one with the difficult gate and the tea still warm and the someone always just leaving.