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psalmisetaPoems
053026 Who would choose a place like this? Where lost things arrive on tired feet, Gathering broken versions of themselves Like fragments they no longer recognize. They stay awhile within my silence, I offer them the gentlest parts of me, And they take what they need to stand again — Then leave like wind forgetting its shape. Or maybe they are only waiting For someone they cannot forget, While I become the pause in between, The space they pass through, not return to. I have heard their unspoken storms, Their voices buried under quiet suffering, Their almost-graves of feeling They never learned how to name. Still, I remain open—unfolded, As if staying still could mean staying chosen, As if patience could turn into permanence, As if waiting could become home. I want to be more than a stopover, More than a resting place for breaking hearts, I want to be a home people run to, Not only when they are undone. But in a world of shifting intentions, Where presence is often temporary, I begin to wonder who truly arrives And who only passes through me. And I am left here, quietly learning That not everyone who comes is staying — Some are only passing through my warmth, Turning me into their waiting shed.
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5d ago
May 30, 2026 at 8:54 AM UTC
Threshold: The Waiting Shed of Borrowed Hearts
053026 Who would choose a place like this? Where lost things arrive on tired feet, Gathering broken versions of themselves Like fragments they no longer recognize. They stay awhile within my silence, I offer them the gentlest parts of me, And they take what they need to stand again — Then leave like wind forgetting its shape. Or maybe they are only waiting For someone they cannot forget, While I become the pause in between, The space they pass through, not return to. I have heard their unspoken storms, Their voices buried under quiet suffering, Their almost-graves of feeling They never learned how to name. Still, I remain open—unfolded, As if staying still could mean staying chosen, As if patience could turn into permanence, As if waiting could become home. I want to be more than a stopover, More than a resting place for breaking hearts, I want to be a home people run to, Not only when they are undone. But in a world of shifting intentions, Where presence is often temporary, I begin to wonder who truly arrives And who only passes through me. And I am left here, quietly learning That not everyone who comes is staying — Some are only passing through my warmth, Turning me into their waiting shed.
psalmiseta
Written by
psalmiseta
33/F/Dubai
5d ago
May 30, 2026 at 8:54 AM UTC
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