The House — A Poem.

---

1.38am, October 16, 2021.

The door to the house remains unopened as I stare at it helplessly with my tired eyes.

I know he's in there,
In his worn out shirt and washed out jeans,
Standing still as a rock right on the other side of the door,
Waiting for me to step in.

But like glue my feet are stuck to the ground.
The door to the house remains unopened as I stare at it helplessly with my tired eyes.

Lands that are foreign yet familiar around me speaks of a story I never dared to read,
The snow upon my shoulders feels like a curse that has yet to leave me,
The boots I wear are soggy,
And the stains look blood red on the broken porch I stand on, shaking with misery.

The door to the house remains unopened as I stare at it helplessly with my tired eyes.

I know the hallway beyond it is dark.
The lamp I put inside was supposed to be soothing,
but he doesn’t know that it only makes the shadows look larger,
Light only ever intensifies the dark,
And these days, darkness terrifies me.

So the door to the house remains unopened as I stare at it helplessly with my tired eyes.

The room we built together is a warm welcomed place
But what he doesn’t know is that I don’t really feel welcomed there when I try to venture alone.
The fire from the fireplace feels cold on my skin when I think about it.
And the couch on my back feels like stone.

A part of him lives in that room but that part isn’t someone I know,
His warm hands couldn’t hide the sorrow that bleeds out from those eyes of his,
And I'm afraid to touch him,
Feeling like he might shatter between my palms and disappear any minute.

The door to the house still remains unopened as I stare at it helplessly with my tired eyes.

He asked me if he would ever have a place up on that shelf of mine,
But he doesn’t understand that it's not the shelf where I want him to put on, high and out of reach.
He doesn't know that if he was a book to me his place would be right on the table beside the couch.
With faded pages and torn out covers I want him to be close for me to grab onto whenever I want,
Always waiting for me to open and read.

He asks for a place on the shelf.
So I hate on the shelf without thinking.

The door to the house remains unopened as I stare at it helplessly with my tired eyes.

I don’t think I have it in me to open it without his voice in my head.
The house,
It scares me when I'm alone.
I don’t like the one who waits on the other side with an ever sealed mouth.

So after staring for a while,
I always turn back.
Leaving the place as the snow falls on my shoulders.

The door to the house remains unopened.

[ Image Source ]