Evening Returns

I.

She walks in like dusk—quiet and painted,

Lipstick a shade darker than yesterday’s guilt,

Perfume borrowed from a stranger’s collar,

Yet in our home, she folds her lies like laundry,

Neatly hiding truth beneath her apron of charm.

II.

The kettle boils with secrets never spoken,

Walls echo with footsteps that don’t match her shoes,

Mirrors flinch at the stories they must hold,

While silence sets our table, knife and fork,

Feasting on the rot beneath her wedding ring.

III.

We know—the night is not as blind as she hopes,

We’ve smelled the fire in her morning breath,

Heard whispers stitched in her sighs at dawn,

But still, we set the table and pour her wine,

Letting time offer grace where truth should reign.

IV.

Oaths once etched in gold now rust in her laughter,

Kisses timed like a clock with broken trust,

She sings lullabies to a house she doesn't love,

Yet always returns with the moon as witness—

A performance we’ve grown too numb to critique.

V.

But love is not the absence of knowing—

It’s the patience to watch a storm and still hope,

To gather the shards without cutting the soul,

To light the candle though the flame flickers,

To stand firm while deception dares to dance.

VI.

One day, the curtain will forget to fall,

And her mask will cling too tightly to lie,

The streets she roamed will echo her name,

Not in praise, but in the tone of revelation,

And even the shadows will shake her off.

VII.

Yet we—wounded but not wrecked—shall rise,

Not in rage, but in the dignity of truth,

For hearts once broken bloom again in clarity,

We choose not revenge, but redemption’s road,

And from this ash, we plant honesty’s seed.

© Bunguswa ™