Behind the Locked Door

She knocks once—soft, then walks away,
It’s late, the end of a long, full day.
I hear her sigh through the hallway hum,
The house gone still, the laundry done.

She thinks I’m in here wasting time,
Clicking through reels, chasing the rhyme
Of mindless noise, of YouTube scroll,
Or something darker taking toll.

Maybe she thinks it’s lust or lies,
Some lonely habit in disguise.
But I’m just here beneath the light,
Bleeding out my heart at night.

A journal open, pages worn,
With ink-stained hands and spirit torn.
I write of love and quiet ache,
Of dreams we’ve lost and vows we make.

She doesn’t know this desk holds weight—
My battlefield, my silent gate.
Not po rn, not games, not guilt or shame,
But poems too soft to give a name.

I write of her—those tired eyes,
The way she hums when bread still rises.
The curve she hides beneath old tees,
The way she sleeps, half-turning to me.

I write of us—of things unsaid,
Of years that passed, of tears we shed.
Of joy, of pain, of all we miss,
Of mornings filled with caffeine and kiss.

Someday she’ll find this shrouded spine,
And trace these lines back through the time.
Then maybe she will understand
That silence doesn’t mean unmanned.

So let her wonder what I do
Behind this door she knocks right through.
For while she doubts or walks away,
I write the words I cannot say.