One day, you will return
to the moment you left yourself behind.
To touch the outline of your absence
like a photograph you forgot to frame.
You’ll gather the scattered Saturdays,
the drawings no one kept,
the questions you were too afraid to ask,
the stories no one stayed long enough to hear.
And you’ll remember the slammed doors,
the silence between two people who once made you,
the friend who stopped texting back,
the laughter that vanished from the room.
You’ll walk through those rooms again,
dust in the corners,
and sit beside the stranger,
your hand on his own shoulder.
Only this time,
you won’t hush his laugh.
You won’t close the door.
It will be as natural as breath,
as quiet as light through the curtains
of a house no longer haunted.
This time, you’ll tell him you’re here now.
Every door will open.
And the only thing heard through the hallways
will be the laughter of a child
and the stars in the night sky,
laughing along.
This time, you’ll stay.
Jun 9, 2025
Jun 9, 2025 at 12:26 PM UTC
One day, you will return
to the moment you left yourself behind.
To touch the outline of your absence
like a photograph you forgot to frame.
You’ll gather the scattered Saturdays,
the drawings no one kept,
the questions you were too afraid to ask,
the stories no one stayed long enough to hear.
And you’ll remember the slammed doors,
the silence between two people who once made you,
the friend who stopped texting back,
the laughter that vanished from the room.
You’ll walk through those rooms again,
dust in the corners,
and sit beside the stranger,
your hand on his own shoulder.
Only this time,
you won’t hush his laugh.
You won’t close the door.
It will be as natural as breath,
as quiet as light through the curtains
of a house no longer haunted.
This time, you’ll tell him you’re here now.
Every door will open.
And the only thing heard through the hallways
will be the laughter of a child
and the stars in the night sky,
laughing along.
This time, you’ll stay.