Threshold: The Waiting Shed of Borrowed Hearts
by psalmiseta
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.