A House, Not Home

On Waiting

Photo by Elena Rabkina on Unsplash

As though it will not come
if it hears its name—
some wait,
walking room to room,
closing drawers gently,
stirring dust like memory

They speak aloud
not to be heard
but to check if the voice
still fits—
like trying on old clothes
or something new
that still looks like them

They say they are preparing—
polished china,
pictures hung in hallways
of what almost was,
or will be—
once the air is cleared
of anything that broke

They imagine it will come
when the door fits the frame,
and the knob
no longer gives under their hand—
it knows what they’re hiding

But love
remembers the way in
from before the house,
before the rooms—
it comes barefoot,
with the rain,
without warning,
without asking

Still they wait—
for a name they no longer trust,
a version
of themselves
they finally believe in,
something that will not ask
what took so long—
or much at all

And love,
already leaning at the threshold,
leaves—
unnamed,
unnoticed

The door
never opened
the doorknob
still loose
as it always was

~Kayla

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