You came to me with little baggage,
you placed your hand in mine
and your lips on my forehead;
soft, not heavy. Fragile.

The only baggage was that of your past,
and your eyes screamed with experience.
I could never find the ghosts that haunted you.
I spent months trying to read your story;
found that you were a novel of suspense and mystery.
You spoke very little but your breath smelled of alcohol,
and that's when I knew there was something unknown.
I tried to find what burdened you, tried to sink beneath your skin,
but like floorboards you creaked and were full of tight nails;
I tried, but too much force could break you apart,
I never wanted to hurt you.

I could never crack the case of you,
your windows were too fogged to see through,
and then I thought that maybe you'd left them like that purposely;
who am I to knock down your walls?
Who am I to peak into your corners?

I never did find what burdened you,
and I feared of becoming a part of whatever that was;
in some ways I hope you left with less baggage than you came with,
but sometimes I hope the scrape on the window reminds you
that someone once tried.

If you don't want me around,
please, lock your door.

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