Progression of a Poem

I felt like writing a poem. It did not turn out the way I wanted, but when do they? I feel like showing the progression, so here's how it developed.

***

There is a little house waiting for me,
rooms silent in the calm of a new day.
I tiptoe across the wooden floors
and imagine the person who lives here.
Tracing my fingertips along empty shelves
I wish I knew what books belonged.

***

There is a little house waiting for me,
blank walls and silent rooms.
Sometimes I push open the door
and walk across the wooden floors.
I trace my fingers along empty shelves
and try to imagine the person
who lives here, the books that belong
and the songs that are sung.

***

There is a little house waiting for me,
blank walls and silent rooms.
Sometimes I push open the door
and walk across the wooden floors.
Tracing fingertips on empty shelves
I try to imagine the person
who lives here —
the books that belong
and the songs that are sung.
But the titled spines do not appear
and the winding words do not come.

There is no clue to this stranger's mind,
no hint to their heart,
and I wonder if I'll know her when we meet.

Will she know me?


***

Stranger

There is a little house waiting for me,
blank walls and silent rooms.
Sometimes I push open the door
and walk across the wooden floors.
Tracing fingertips on empty shelves
I try to imagine the person
who lives here —
the books that belong
and the songs that are sung.
But the titled spines do not appear
and the winding words do not come.

***

It is about the future, and how your future self can feel like a stranger. I think. Too much like prose-with-line-breaks, probably, but practice nonetheless~