Wood splinters,
as doors slam—
Someone always ends up leaving.

Down the hall,
voices rise, then settle—
we were taught not to talk to strangers,
even the ones who once loved us.

Love is a blanket,
too short to cover our feet—
stretched too thin,
it always tears us.

A house can break in small ways—
first in the sharp cut of words,
then, in silence,
until even the walls stop asking for us.

In the end—
there is nothing left
but the frame of a doorway,
a threshold where no one waits—
just air shifting,
and a ghost stepping through.