A House You Leave, A Door You Return To

You left like the tide, fading into silence,

pulling the warmth from my hands,

leaving me to gather the broken shells

of promises you never planned to keep,

salt in my wounds, whispering your name.

I learned to walk without your shadow,

became the wind’s quiet companion,

stitched myself from the echoes of loss,

stood on sand that shifted beneath me,

but never let myself sink.

Then you returned, gold dripping from your skin,

carrying stories I was never part of,

while I stood, hands empty but steady,

watching you peel back my stitches

with the same careless grace as before.

You burn through me like a reckless flame,

taking my warmth but fearing my fire,

daring me to let go, but never too far,

always reaching back when the cold sets in,

always leaving when the night turns soft.

You speak of choices like open doors,

yet your footsteps still find my threshold,

taking shelter in the home I built alone,

while telling me of places you could be,

as if my walls were not enough.

Still, I give, though I am frayed,

a patchwork of longing and resolve,

woven from nights that never end,

knowing I was never the first choice,

but never willing to be the last.

Perhaps I was the sky, always waiting,

always stretching where you would not reach,

perhaps I was never your anchor,

only a reflection in shallow water,

something to step over, never to hold

© Bunguswa ™